


Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories - Part Two

by Mad_Hatter1331



Series: Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Doctor John Watson, During Canon, Episode Related, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, My First Fanfic, Original Character-centric, POV Original Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Until The Final Problem, What If Eurus Had a Twin, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:49:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Hatter1331/pseuds/Mad_Hatter1331
Summary: What if Eurus Holmes had a twin sister?Iris Moretti has a brilliant memory. With a Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory, Iris can remember everything that's ever happened to her since she was six. But what she can't remember is what happened before, as Iris has never known her true family. Bouncing around foster homes in America all her life, Iris can't help but wonder who her birth parents are, or how she ended up the way she is.As a young adult searching for answers, battling with her memory, and feeling stagnant in life, Iris wonders what will be next. A lead from her private investigator sends Iris to London, in hopes of following a very thin thread of hope. She packs up everything and moves, determined to follow the tiny chance she has of knowing who she is. That is, until she meets the two men living above her in 221B. Swept up in the adventures of her new neighbors, Iris finds friends, family, and herself.PART TWO:It's been two years since Iris stepped foot in London. Two years since Sherlock jumped off the roof at Bart's, and two years spent grieving. What will await Iris as she returns to London?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson
Series: Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130966
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Iris Moretti and the Case of Her Forgotten Memories - Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own any of the characters or dialogue that is directly related to/from the BBC Sherlock series. I only own my Original Character and any of the extra scenes/dialogue I've added in. This is one of my absolute favorite series and I want to make it clear that this is their work/storyline I'm following, just adding in my own character and the pizazz that comes with it!
> 
> Part 1 is up until The Reichenbach Fall, Part 2 is through until the end. Part 1 is complete, with Part 2 in active progress. 
> 
> I have had the best time working on this story, and I am so happy to see folks checking it out for themselves! Iris Moretti is such a fun character to play with, and I look forward to the adventures she and the whole gang will get up to in this next part.

“Why am I getting a major sense of déjà vu here?” Sam asks as he leans against the countertop in his apartment. Iris moves about collecting the last few pieces of clothing she needs to pack; her passport and wallet on the island between them.  


“This is not the same as before, Sam. The first time I left and I did not know when I was going to return; this time I’ll be back in a week.” Iris pushes her shoulder-length hair out of her face, the dark curls tickling her nose as she still tries to adjust to the shorter length.  


“Yeah, that’s true... And you’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Sam asks, Iris stopping next to her navy blue suitcase and pulling the handle up.  


“Yes, I’m sure, Sam. It’ll be hard, but Melinda’s granddaughter said it was important that I came to the service. I guess she’s left something for me and Susie was afraid to ship it overseas in case it got lost.” Iris fiddles with the handle. Sam moves closer to her and puts his hand on her shoulder to get her to look at him. She does with a small smile, eyes lost in a memory. Sam moves his hand up to Iris’ hair, Iris letting her head sink into the warmth and familiarity from his touch.  


“I just can’t believe she’s gone. I mean it was bad enough having the stroke, but she seemed to be doing better, at least according to Susie. I guess the fact she lived for almost two years after that massive of a stroke is better than they could have hoped...” Iris exhales.  


“You know if you get there and find you can’t do it alone, I will be on the next plane out. You don’t have to face all this sadness alone...” Sam’s emphasis on ‘sadness’ has Iris almost rolling her eyes.  


“It’s been two years, Sam. And while I’m not one hundred percent okay, I think I can handle this.”  


“I just don’t like you going when it’ll be two years exactly, Iris. And I won’t be there.” Sam says grimly, Iris fighting the memories from this same time last year.  


_Small orange bottle in her hand, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Flash to staring up at the ceiling of the bathroom and Sam’s terrified face looking down at her. The lights and sounds and smells of the hospital._ Iris shakes her head and focuses on Sam in front of her.  


“It won’t be like that this time. I’m on my meds, they’re working, it’s fine. Really, Sam, you know how much I dislike talking about all this, especially when nothing you say will make me cancel this trip.”  


Sam raises his hands in surrender, trying to balance the line of caring and worry over Iris.  


“All right, all right. I just want you to be okay... with your memory I know there will be constant reminders everywhere you go.”  


“I know. But I’ve been working on it, they haven’t been as bad... and when they are I’m learning how to deal the best I can.”  


Sam’s pensive look questions the truth of that statement, instead choosing to move on.  


“One last question and I’ll leave you alone: do you have your meds?”  


“Yes. All packed away.” Iris responds flatly. She moves to put her passport in her wallet and check on her boarding pass on her cellphone.  


"Even the ‘just in case’ bottle?” Sam asks carefully. Iris clicks her phone shut and pockets it.  


“Yes.” Iris pinches the bridge of her nose to try and release some of the tension she feels discussing this particular topic with him. “I’ve got this Sam, honestly. You don’t have to treat me like glass that’s about to shatter. I will be fine.”  


“I know you will be... it’s just with-” Sam pauses trying to find the words, “with everything that happened before you came back to New York... I just don’t want this to be worse on your mental health than it already has been.”  


“I need to do this, Sam. My therapist thinks it’ll be good, to face it all after having some time away... And if it’s not, I will turn around and come back.” Iris tries to shrug off the conversation and slides on her new velvet green pea coat. Sam checks his watch and goes for his winter coat on the hook by the door as he responds.  


“Alright, if you think it’s what is best for you, then I hope it goes well.” Sam manages a smile as he opens the front door for Iris to pull her suitcase through.  


“Do you think you’ll meet up with John?” Sam asks as they ride the elevator down to the lobby of Sam’s building.  


“I’m not sure... I haven’t heard from him in over a year. Greg and I write back and forth a bit, and I try to call Mrs. Hudson every few weeks or so... Who knows?” Iris adjusts her shoulder bag as the elevator doors open and they head out to the curb.  


“I’ll be here if you need anything, forever and always.” Sam smiles as the cab pulls up.  


“Forever and always.” Iris repeats, hugging Sam tightly.  


Similar motions of saying goodbye, getting into a cab, and heading to the airport pull up a myriad of memories and emotions for Iris, though each time she manages with all her might to center herself with the idea that this is a short trip. She has her return ticket booked in a week and if she can just pull herself through meeting with Susie she can continue moving forward. A pang of sadness hits as the rush of excitement and hope floods over her from before she first moved to London. Before she met John and Sherlock.  


The flight is full of turbulence and Iris tries not to take it as a sign of how this trip will go, but she is grateful for when they finally touch down in Heathrow. Yanking her carryon out of the overhead bin, Iris bundles herself back up in her coat and heads down towards baggage claim to find a cab.  


Riding down the escalator Iris takes in all the people around her, a vast energy shift from New York City. In scanning the crowd of people waiting at the bottom, Iris almost completely skips over a familiar face.  


“Greg?” Iris calls out in disbelief, jumping off the last step of the escalator to meet his embrace with a laugh. “What are you doing here?”  


“You mentioned in your last letter that you were flying in this morning, and I thought I’d come pick you up- there’s only one flight from JFK before ten am so it wasn’t that hard to figure out.” Greg grins as he steps back and moves Iris over to avoid her hitting more travelers coming off the escalator.  


“Well I am very surprised and glad to see you.” Iris replies, following Greg out to his car.  


“So, when did you get the new ‘do?” Greg asks as he offers to take Iris’ suitcase handle from her. She allows him to, self-consciously reaching up to the much shorter length.  


“Oh, it’s been almost eight or nine months now? The bangs are only a couple of weeks old. I just... needed a change.” Iris tries to brush it off, tousling the fringe on her forehead.  


“I think the style suits you.” Greg says with a smile, both exactly the same as she last saw him, and still so different. The lines in his face are a bit deeper, while his eyes still light up Iris recognizes the slight dim. Whether from exhaustion or his own grief, Iris does not know.  


The cold London air hits Iris’ cheeks, making her eyes water as the lack of yellow NYC cabs startles her. Thankfully, Greg didn’t park too far away and soon they are enveloped in the warm heated interior of his government-issued vehicle. State of the art, tons of fancy buttons and displays, even heated seats Iris discovers.  


“Wow, they really decked you out, this is nice.” Iris runs her hand along the leather dashboard while Greg pulls out of the parking lot.  


“Being Detective Inspector has to get me something now, doesn’t it? It came with my yearly bonus, only a month old.”  


“Well, it’s good praise for a good detective.” Iris looks out the window and watches the familiar skyline. Greg turns on the radio, it softly plays in the background some music station she doesn’t recognize. The ride is pleasant as the two chit-chat about the city and some government politics involving an important vote Iris hadn’t heard of but Greg’s department was handling security for with Parliament. Apparently, it’s been causing a nightmare with staffing.  


“Where’s your hotel? I want to make sure I get you back before I have to stop back at The Yard.” Greg sighs as he stops at a stoplight.  


“Where is it easiest for you to get back? I can take the Tube anywhere with just my one little suitcase. I wasn’t expecting a ride at all so wherever is easiest for you, honestly. And I’m actually not staying at a hotel; Mrs. Hudson is letting me crash at Baker Street.” Iris replies, Greg’s eyebrows nearly disappearing into his gray hairline.  


“Really? I, uh... thought you might... well, that’s good then, isn’t it?” Greg stumbles a bit, not wanting to say something upsetting.  


“It’s okay, Greg, really. It’ll be good to face it head-on, now that so much time has passed. Plus, I don’t know if I could manage to stay in a hotel- if Mrs. Hudson found out she’d bite my head off for not staying with her.” Iris chuckles, remembering how adamant she was on the phone the last time they spoke about Iris staying with her (Mrs. Hudson even offered the pullout couch in her own living room in case Iris didn’t want to stay in her old flat).  


“That is true, you’d never hear the end of it.” Greg smiles as Iris looks out the window and recognizes where they are in Central London.  


“Look, Baker Street is close enough to Scotland Yard, just take me with you back to the office and I’ll make it the rest of the way from there.”  


“Alright, sounds good. And hey, I just have to make a couple quick phone calls from my office if you want to hang out and we can grab a cup of coffee? Get you properly caffeinated before braving Baker Street again?”  


“Sure, that would be nice.” Iris shifts her black messenger bag in her lap, fiddling with the silver buckle on the strap, sorely missing her fidget cube she realizes she left back in NYC.  


The massive brick building of Scotland Yard appears in the windshield, Greg pulling around in the back to where officers and other detectives park. They leave Iris’ suitcase in the trunk and walk towards the front lobby. Once inside and warm again, Iris plops down in one of the plush chairs by reception as Greg runs off to handle his usual morning tasks.  


Iris works to push away all the times she and John ran through this lobby chasing after Sherlock, his coat fluttering behind him as he shouted for Greg across the bullpen with whatever solution he’d just worked out. Thankful for one of the more happier Sherlock memories, Iris closes her eyes and lets the excitement slowly fade away as she centers herself back in the present. Greg returns in less than half an hour, in more need of coffee than when he first arrived.  


On the front steps of Scotland Yard, Greg and Iris happily sip at their coffees, glad the early morning weather seems to have warmed up slightly. They’re about to walk away from the small coffee stand when Philip Anderson runs up to Greg.  


“Lestrade! Lestrade, I’ve figured it out, another way he could have done it!” Philip huffs out of breath.  


“Oh, Anderson, not now, please.” Greg quickly tries to brush him aside, continuing on his path towards the lobby. Iris, curious, stays behind.  


“How who could have done it?” Iris asks, Philip eying her warily, unsure of why she’s back in London. Greg cuts him off before he can ask.  


“No, Iris, don’t pay him any mind, really.” Greg tries to get Iris to follow him, but Philip answers before he can stop him.  


“How Sherlock survived.” Philip says bluntly, knocking the wind out of Iris’ lungs. That was not a sentence Iris expected, or even remotely would have guessed.  


“What?!” Iris nearly drops her cup. Greg takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself so as to not punch Philip. Iris turns to Greg in hopes of some explanation.  


“Philip seems to be under the impression that...” Greg takes a deep breath, unsure of how to explain without making it sound more manic than it actually is. “He thinks that Sherlock’s suicide was somehow faked and he’s actually still alive.” Greg hangs his head in utter annoyance, Iris’ eyes wide at the thought.  


“No, it’s not possible, we- we saw him... and he-” Iris starts to stutter, almost laughing at the idea of Sherlock still being alive.  


“No it is possible, you see I think that he had a bungee rope attached to him at the back of his coat, and when he jumped it sprung him back up in time to crash through a window and escape while Moriarty’s dead body was used as a decoy- dressed up to look like Sherlock-”  


“I’m sorry, what?!” Iris interrupts, this new information hitting her even harder. “Moriarty’s dead body? How did-” Iris turns to Greg, his head still hung in exasperation. Her confusion at Moriarty’s death causes Greg to look up.  


“Yeah, don’t you remember? All the papers had it listed: Moriarty shot himself in the head before Sherlock jumped... They thought it was a murder-suicide until forensics found gun powder on Moriarty’s hand, not Sherlock’s. How did you not know that?” Greg asks.  


“I couldn’t look at the papers or listen to the news without getting sick... I guess I just buried my head in the sand far enough where I didn’t realize... Wow.” Iris tries to process the idea of Moriarty killing himself just before Sherlock did the same. Moriarty’s goal was to ruin Sherlock, but how could he enjoy his victory if he too was dead?  


Before Iris could continue piecing that out, Philip continues his strange and elaborate theory. It somehow includes a famous hypnotist who managed to knock Iris and John out for an extra minute or two so they could set the scene and get everything together.  


“Let it go, Sherlock’s dead.” Greg huffs out, cutting Philip off as he’s heard enough.  


“But is he?” Philip asks, obsession with this thought across his face.  


“There was a body, it was Sherlock. It was definitely him, Molly Hooper laid him out.” Greg calmly tries to explain, Philip shaking his head adamantly.  


“No, she’s lying. It was Jim Moriarty’s body with a mask on.”  


“A mask?” Iris asks, very glad that her meds are managing to keep her anxiety at a relatively normal level, when not even a year ago something like this might send her spiraling.  


“A bungee rope, a mask, Derren Brown. Two years and the theories keep getting more stupid.” Greg sighs sadly as he shakes his head.  


“How many other theories does he have?” Iris asks Greg.  


“I’ve lost count. How many more have you got for me today?” Greg turns to Philip. Philip, unsure if Greg is serious in asking, takes a moment before starting off on something new.  


“Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area, even the exact ones that he landed on, you know they were all-”  


“Guilt.” Greg interrupts him. “That’s all this is.” Greg stares him down, Philip unable to say anything in response. The memories and anger of those final few days before Sherlock jumped rushing back to Iris.  


“You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud, you and Donovan.” Iris bites out. “You both planted that doubt in people’s head and because of it he is gone. It killed him, and he’s staying dead.” Iris scolds, shakily raising her cup to her lips, attempting to quell the anger rising within her. Philip keeps his eyes trained on his shoes.  


“Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories it’s going to change what really happened?” Greg asks. Seeing that Philip doesn’t respond, Greg and Iris turn to leave. Philip calls out after them.  


“I believe in Sherlock Holmes.”  


“Yeah, well, that won’t bring him back.” Greg throws back over his shoulder, Iris choosing to keep walking. They weave around a smattering of reporters and cameramen on the front steps, catching a bit of the news they’re reporting.  


“And that after extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty. Amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion.” Iris stops mid-step, listening.  


“Sadly, all this comes too late for the detective, who became something of a celebrity two years ago. Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far.” Iris turns to Greg, who shakes his head in frustration. Many of their letters back and forth discussed his utter guilt and disgust with himself overthinking, for even a moment, that Sherlock had been behind any of the events leading up to his death.  


Iris puts a hand on his upper arm and gives him a reassuring squeeze. Philip managed to follow them, a drink of his own in his hand as he too listens to the many reporters.  


“Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London’s Bart’s Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it’s unlikely-” Iris inhales sharply, trying to cut out the sound of the reporters around her, instead focusing on Greg and Philip in front of her.  


“Well, then. Absent friends. Sherlock.” Greg offers, raising his paper cup in a toast.  


“To Sherlock.” Iris seconds, Philip as well, the three of them ‘clinking’ their drinks and taking a sip. Philip chooses to stay listening to the reporters, while Iris and Greg head back towards the main lobby. Before heading in, they stop off at Lestrade’s car to grab her suitcase.  


“I’m sorry about that, I should have warned you. Philip’s gone a bit... mental.” Iris tenses at Greg’s word choice.  


“How long has Anderson been obsessing over Sherlock like this?” Iris asks as Greg shuts his trunk. He lifts up the handle for her before leaning on the back of his car.  


“Almost two years now. He’s got a club of people like him, calls it ‘The Empty Hearse.’ They’re all obsessed with this idea that Sherlock’s still alive.”  


“But he’s not, right?” Iris asks, struggling with absolutely all her might to not hope that maybe there’s some sliver of a chance Philip is right. Greg stands and shakes his head.  


“No, he’s not. We would know if he wasn’t, and believe me, he’s not. We were at his funeral, Molly Hooper did the autopsy, Sherlock’s _gone._ ” Greg says definitively, Iris nodding in agreeance.  


“You’re right. Nothing anyone does now is going to bring him back...” The two stand there, unsure of what to do next. Greg checks his watch.  


“I hate to leave, but I have another bloody meeting to get to, are you sure you’re alright to get back to Baker Street? I could probably have an officer drive you if you’d like, or-” Iris shakes her head.  


“It’s not even twenty minutes on the Jubilee Line, really. Thank you for the ride, it was really lovely to see you again.” Iris hugs Greg tightly, grateful for his continued friendship over these past two years.  


“Call me if you want to meet up for dinner or coffee before you go, I promise we’ll keep Anderson and his stupidity far away.” Greg jokes, Iris promising to reach out before she flies home.  


While she spent the majority of her time with John and Sherlock in cabs running about the city, when they weren’t around Iris familiarized herself with the different Underground Stations in the area. After buying a new Oyster card and loading it with enough money to last her the week, Iris minds the gap and hops on the next train heading towards Baker Street.  


Her thoughts wanders to Philip’s ‘theories’ and the idea of Sherlock actually managing to fake his own death. While Iris never spoke with Mycroft after her and John confronted him at the Diogenes Club, he was at the funeral and she thought she heard Mrs. Hudson on the phone with him discussing what to do with Sherlock’s things upstairs. If Sherlock managed to fake his death, surely his brother would be in on it as well, right? It all brings back too many memories, Iris instead focusing on her breathing as the tube rattles closer and closer to Baker Street.  


The station is familiar, while the posters on the wall are different and Iris herself is different, her mind continues to flit back and forth between past memories and her present reality. Almost like on auto-pilot Iris finds herself at the foot of 221B’s front steps, firmly planted to the ground and unable to move any further.  


While Iris thought the ease of seeing Greg and Scotland Yard would transfer towards having to walk through this big oak door, she’s sorely disappointed when all that waits for her is fear and sadness. With her guard down, memories of her last few days here flash into view- that final phone call with Sherlock on the roof, the funeral, trying to stay afloat when all she wanted to do was drift away into the despair and heartbreak.  


_Blue irises framed by blood and curly dark hair. His Belstaff coat stained somehow even darker from the blood pooling around his motionless body on the pavement. John’s pitiful voice calling out, trying to search for a pulse that isn’t there._

It’s Sherlock’s eyes, staring back lifeless and blank, that nearly send Iris to her knees. She manages to turn and sit on the steps before hitting the pavement, but it doesn’t help her navigate the onslaught of all these memories. Iris fights as hard as she can to yank herself back to reality, trying every trick every psychologist or psychiatrist has ever given her to calmly pull herself back together.  


When she still cannot get her breathing under control, Iris reaches into her bag for a small blue bottle of pills. Shakily, she manages to get one pill out and swallows it dry, desperate for the relief from this oncoming panic attack. Within a few minutes, her breathing starts to slow and her heartrate returns to a normal rhythm. She wipes her sweaty palms on her dark wash jeans, inhaling deeply through her nose and exhaling slowly from her mouth. When she closes her eyes Iris sees only darkness and not that familiar pair of irises.  


Iris finally musters up the strength to get back to her feet, turning and reaching for the bronze knocker to rap loudly three times. Unsteady, but still standing, Iris steps back from the door and reaches for her suitcase for stability.  


The door opens to reveal Mrs. Hudson, a welcome sight after such a long time. She flies down the steps to Iris, throwing her arms around her in as big of a hug as her frail arms can manage. Iris gratefully returns the hug, smelling vanilla and cinnamon on her clothes and smiling.  


“Iris, dear, it is so good to see you. Come in, come in now.” Mrs. Hudson opens the door as Iris pulls her suitcase in behind her. She takes her coat off and hangs it on the hook by the door, ignoring the fact that the hooks usually holding a long Belstaff and dark leather coat are empty. Before Iris knows it, she’s sitting at Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table with a warm cup of tea in her hands and a plate so full of cookies Iris wonders how long she’s been baking in preparation for Iris. A particular cookie on the edge of the plate catches her eye.  


“Oh how I’ve missed your cinnamon twisties! I tried for nearly two weeks to recreate these back home, and I never could get them right.” Iris gratefully takes a bite, relishing in the sugary delicious treat.  


“I have a whole box of them, ready for you this week. Are you really only staying a week?” Mrs. Hudson asks sweetly, a familiar line of conversation with her.  


“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I told you, I’m just here to pay my respects and collect whatever Melinda’s left behind for me in her will and then I have to get back. With work I can’t stay out for that long, and it’s just being back I...” Iris looks down at her teacup. Mrs. Hudson reaches across the table to put a hand on her arm.  


“It’s alright, dearie. I understand. I’ll just have to soak up my time with you while I can.” Mrs. Hudson offers a warm smile. Iris takes a sip of her tea when a key fitting into the front door turns both their heads. Mrs. Hudson rises from her seat, Iris following close behind.  


Mrs. Hudson opens her front door to find John Watson standing in the foyer, main door shutting firmly behind him. Iris watches him over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder, shocked to see him here of all places. Before Iris can further ponder John’s strange entrance, something on John’s face catches her eye: a moustache attached to John’s upper lip. In the entire time Iris has known John, or spent any time with him and Sherlock, he has always been cleanshaven. The most she ever saw was some morning stubble that soon disappeared when he’d return from a shower.  


Iris is about to call out a hello, when in front of her Mrs. Hudson’s shift in energy stops her. Mrs. Hudson turns and stomps back to her kitchen, leaving her door open and Iris standing in the doorway. Soon she hears banging as Mrs. Hudson nearly throws her kettle back in the sink, fills it, and drops it down onto the stove with a clang. Iris turns back to John, who’s made his way closer to her now.  


“Hi.” John offers with a brief smile.  


“Hi there.” Iris responds.  


“I, uh... didn’t expect to see you here- in London...”  


“I only got in this morning, just here for the week...” And uncomfortable pause, Iris unsure of how much to share. “Melinda, from the antique store with the jewelry, umm... well she died, and her granddaughter asked me to come for a small service. I guess she left me something they didn’t want to ship overseas.” Iris explains awkwardly, unsure of how to act. It has been so long since she heard from him that any of their comfortable, familiar report has vanished.  


“Oh wow, I’m sorry to hear that...” John responds, shifting back and forth on his feet. “I knew she had the stroke, but to actually pass-”  


“It seems her surviving for nearly two years after that stroke was incredible to begin with, so at least it’s not completely... unexpected.” Iris trails off, realizing what this is in direct contrast to. The two stand in a most unbearable silence.  


“Well, this is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” John asks with an odd laugh. Iris crosses her arms and leans on the doorframe.  


“I would say so, though I think it’s going a bit better than whatever Mrs. Hudson has planned for you in there.” Iris teases as she turns her head to see Mrs. Hudson angrily open and shut the fridge, slamming more items down on the table. They enter the kitchen, Iris resuming her spot in front of her tea, John taking the chair opposite her.  


The tea boils and Mrs. Hudson pours out another cup, banging it down on the table in front of John who fails to avoid wincing. She reaches across the table for the bowl of sugar next to Iris, nearly throwing it at John before stopping herself.  


“Oh no, you don’t take it, do you?” She asks coldly. John pauses before shaking his head.  


“No.”  


“You forget a little thing like that. You forget lots of little things, it seems.” Mrs. Hudson responds passive aggressively. Iris looks between the two, John obviously uncomfortable with Mrs. Hudson’s anger towards him.  


Mrs. Hudson studies John’s face for a moment before reaching up to her own upper lip. “Not sure about that.” She says unabashedly. “Ages you.”  


“Just trying it out.” John replies calmly, smoothing his moustache down with his finger and thumb. Iris self-consciously reaches up to her own hair, fluffing her bangs out of her eyes.  


“Well, it ages you.” Mrs. Hudson says bluntly. John takes a deep breath before trying to speak.  


“Look,” he starts, Mrs. Hudson interrupting him.  


“I’m not your mother, I’ve no right to expect it. But just one phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done.” She pleads, the anger melting towards the hurt she truly feels underneath. John looks down to his cup as Iris takes a sip of her own.  


“I know.” He says solemnly.  


“After all we went through!” Mrs. Hudson moves slightly towards Iris, putting a hand on her shoulder. Iris sets her cup down and looks to John who can’t quite meet her eyes.  


“Yes.” John shrugs as he knows what he’s done. “I am sorry.” He says earnestly. Mrs. Hudson takes the seat at the head of the small table.  


“Look, I understand how difficult it was for you both after...” Mrs. Hudson inhales, pausing at whether or not to use Sherlock’s name. “After...” She trails off again.  


“I just let it slide, Mrs. Hudson. I let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow.” John admits, Iris feeling much of the same. With Mrs. Hudson it was a bit easier for Iris to call and keep up with because she kept the conversation about other things, but with John... it was too hard to try and muscle through a conversation that was cloaked with so much sadness and loss that neither wanted to admit. And so, like John, Iris slowly stopped picking up the phone.  


“Do you know what I mean?” John asks, looking to Mrs. Hudson and then finally braving a full look to Iris. She meets his gaze with a sad smile. Mrs. Hudson reaches over for his hand, nodding her head.  


“Yes, I think we know exactly what you mean.” Iris responds, her voice quiet and apologetic. They sit for a moment letting the emotions linger, before John takes a deep breath and sits back in his chair. Mrs. Hudson stands to tidy things up on the table, sniffling as she moves to the sink.  


“I was thinking of stopping off upstairs before I left, look around a bit.” John says coolly, no emotion whatsoever behind his voice. Mrs. Hudson stops mid-wash in the sink.  


“Of course, if you’re sure.”  


Iris looks to John, his shoulders set back and jaw tight, wondering what he’s thinking right now. She rises with John and decides to follow him, hopeful that the meds she took continue to keep things calm.  


They silently climb the stairs, each step creaking under their feet. John stops at the door with his hand on the knob a beat longer than normal, Iris sure he’s mentally preparing himself. He opens the door and steps in, Iris taking a moment to breathe.  


The curtains are drawn closed, keeping out the early afternoon light except for small streaks peeking in at the sides. Standing in the doorway Iris can see the dust, interrupted by John’s opening of the door, shifting in and out of the light. Mrs. Hudson suddenly appears behind Iris, entering the flat and turning on the light switch by the couch. A lamp by the bookshelf turns on and a couple other bulbs in the ceiling. She moves to the drapes to open them.  


“I couldn’t face letting it out. Or yours downstairs, Iris.” With the first set of drapes opening, Mrs. Hudson coughs at the upheaval of dust. “He never liked me dusting.”  


John moves from his initial place by the couch towards the center of the room looking off to the kitchen. “No, I know.” He replies quietly.  


_“You can put back anything but dust. Dust is eloquent.” Sherlock explains with a flourish, turning to them with some dust in his hands. Sherlock climbing over furniture and searching the bookcases for a hidden camera planted somewhere in the flat._

Iris’ eyes glaze over staring at Sherlock’s chair, dark and dusty in the place it’s always been. A sneeze from the dust pulls her back to the present, John offering a small ‘bless you,’ before Mrs. Hudson moves to the second pair of drapes.  


“So why now? What changed your mind?” Mrs. Hudson asks John, Iris moving to sit on the edge of the couch, close to the door. John looks between Iris and Mrs. Hudson.  


“Well, I’ve got some news.”  


“Oh God, is it serious?” Mrs. Hudson asks grimly.  


“What? No, no I’m not ill. I’ve, uh, well, I’m... moving on.” John stumbles.  


“You’re emigrating?” Mrs. Hudson says disappointedly.  


“Coming to America are you? We do have nicer weather.” Iris teases, not her usual full voice or energy behind it, still trying to shake off the myriad of memories associated with this room. John chuckles and shakes his head.  


“Nope. Uh, no I’ve, uh... I have met someone.” John admits, somewhat sheepishly. Mrs. Hudson claps her hands in excitement as she moves towards him, Iris rising with a smile.  


“Oh! Ah, lovely.”  


“That’s wonderful John, really.” Iris says as earnestly as she can.  


“Yeah. We’re getting married- well, I’m going to ask, anyway.”  


“So soon after Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks, John tilting his head in confusion.  


“Uh, well yes.” He responds, Mrs. Hudson not quite pleased with it but choosing to move forward.  


“What’s his name?” Mrs. Hudson asks excitedly, Iris outright laughing for a moment. John sighs and leans a hand on the back of his old arm chair.  


“It’s a woman.” He corrects.  


“A woman?” Mrs. Hudson seems surprised.  


“Yes, of course it’s a woman.” John tries to stay calm as Mrs. Hudson continues acting as if John just grew a second head.  


“You really have moved on, haven’t you?” She asks playfully, earning a snort from Iris.  


“John’s had so many girlfriends in and out of this flat that Sherlock-” Iris starts without realizing, Sherlock’s name stopping her in her tracks. It seemed so normal to say his name just then, like he’d flounce out of his bedroom at any minute and whisk them off on some case. Iris simply finishes the thought before the silence grows too awkward. “He stopped remembering their names.” John doesn’t react, though Mrs. Hudson still seems unconvinced.  


“Mrs. Hudson, how many times?” John takes a deep breath before continuing. He stands up straight, hoping she’s finally going to understand. “Sherlock was not my boyfriend.”  


“Live and let live, that’s my motto.” Mrs. Hudson says with a pleasant smile.  


“Listen to me. I am not gay!” John nearly shouts, thinking maybe if he says it loud enough people will actually believe him.  


Mrs. Hudson doesn’t respond, other than to click her tongue unimpressed and move to the kitchen to open the shade on the window. John looks to Iris who shrugs with a smile.  


“When are you asking her?” Iris asks, John breaking out into a big grin.  


“Tonight, if I can actually get the nerve up to ask her.” He admits.  


“Do you have a ring?”  


“Right here,” John says reaching into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small velvet box and opens it for Iris to see. A beautiful engagement ring sits inside, glinting in the light.  


“Oh, John it’s stunning.” Iris responds quietly. He closes it shut and Iris looks at him. “She can’t say no with a ring like that.”  


“Let’s hope you’re right. We met a little over a year ago, and she’s been... everything...” John trails off, pocketing the ring box and straightening his jacket.  


“I’m so glad for you both.” Iris responds, the awkwardness creeping back in between them. Mrs. Hudson returns to the living room and puts a hand on both John and Iris’ elbows with a squeeze.  


“It is so nice to see you both, together again.” Mrs. Hudson looks between them. Iris manages a small smile as John clears his throat.  


“Well, I’d better be off, got to get ready for tonight. It was good to see you both, really.”  


Mrs. Hudson starts off down the stairs, John and Iris following behind. Back downstairs, Iris calls out to John before he reaches the front door.  


“I leave on Sunday if you’re around and want to grab a bite or something. Or not.” Iris corrects herself, hating how strange her voice sounds coming out of her mouth. John pulls out his gloves and nods.  


“Yeah, I’ll let you know.” John replies. Iris decides to leave it at that, about to turn and follow Mrs. Hudson back into her kitchen, when John continues. “I like the haircut.” John motions to Iris who picks up a loose strand between her fingers.  


“Just trying it out.” Iris teases, using John’s line on him which causes him to chuckle.  


“It’s good to see you, Iris.” John opens the front door.  


“Good luck tonight.” Iris calls out, the oak door shutting firmly behind him.  


Iris helps clean up in the kitchen, deciding to head out for a walk to clear her head while Mrs. Hudson goes off to run some errands before her book club later that afternoon. Not even halfway down the block, a black town car slowly pulls up next to her on the street. Rolling her eyes Iris doesn’t even hesitate before reaching for the car door handle.  


“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She mutters under her breath as she peers in towards the driver. “Mycroft sent you?” She asks, knowing full well the answer is yes. Iris climbs in before the driver can nod his head, shutting the cold air out with a slam. “I’m barely in town a few hours and he knows, of course he knows.” She says aloud, the driver ignoring her. They drive the ten minutes or so it takes to get to the Diogenes Club, Iris climbing out of the car before it’s in park.  


Entering the grand relic of a building, Iris runs into Anthea, Mycroft’s assistant, in the lobby. Without a word, Anthea leads Iris down a hallway, up a few flights of stairs and into a part of the building Iris didn’t even realize was connected. The plush armchairs and looming wooden bookcases disappear, replaced by dark metallic walls, linoleum floors, and doors with small square windows as they reach the floor Mycroft’s office must be on.  


Iris smiles to herself as the memory of John being carted away for shouting at the old men in the front foyer pops up, but frowns as it is then replaced by the last interaction they had with Mycroft the night before Sherlock jumped off St. Bart’s. Anthea holds the door to an office open, Iris entering to find Mycroft sitting behind a grand oak desk. Overall the room is cold and the lighting harsh, a giant portrait of some royal (probably the Queen if Iris had to guess) looms over them, watching. Anthea lets the door shut behind her, leaving Iris and Mycroft alone.  


“Hello, Mycroft. I would ask how you knew I was in town, but I think I’d rather leave that to my imagination.” Iris says flatly, unsure of why Mycroft sent for her.  


“Ah, yes, well... Hello there, Iris. Please, have a seat.” Mycroft motions to one of the two plain chairs in front of his desk. Iris catches her reflection in front of her, realizing two of the panels on the wall are made up of mirrors. Mycroft sits comfortably in his chair, Iris perched on the edge of hers.  


“So, Iris. How have you been?” Mycroft asks coolly, Iris nearly snorting.  


“I hardly think you don’t know. I’m sure you have a file somewhere there on your desk all about me and my time back in New York.” She pauses when Mycroft doesn’t react, simply shifts a few papers around in front of him. He clears his throat.  


“Well, I wanted to keep an eye on you, see how things were going.”  


Iris rolls her eyes with a rueful smile.  


“How things are going? Usually that’s something you pick up the phone and call about. But I don’t remember missing any calls from you so...” She eyes Mycroft, huffing when he doesn’t react. “Come on, Mycroft. I’m sure you know all about my relapse and time in rehab. I bet you even have the doctors’ notes on my meds, so tell me, what is this really about?” Iris hides her unease at being here behind a mask of annoyance, but her anxiety creeping up in the back of her head makes it hard to maintain.  


“I... well I don’t quite know how to say this. I probably should have thought of something specific to say, or some way to preface this, but...” Mycroft judges her carefully, before hitting a button on his desk phone. “Send him in.”  


There are a short list of names that pop up in Iris’ head at the pronoun ‘him,’ anyone from John to Greg Lestrade to even Phillip Anderson. One name distinctly _not_ on that list is Sherlock. Because Sherlock Holmes is dead. And yet, the person who enters the small office, now standing before her in a crisp new suit and ruffled dark hair is, in fact, Sherlock Holmes. Not dead. Most certainly alive and right before her eyes. Iris freezes, unsure of what’s happening. She blinks a few times before finding her voice.  


“Oh god, I’m hallucinating again...” Iris murmurs, jumping to her feet and knocking the chair behind her over. The man in front of her, Sherlock apparently, tries to take a step towards her. “No! No, you are dead, you died.” Iris insists loudly, nearly tripping as she steps backward, hands out to stop him. Mycroft is out of his chair as well, actual concern flashing briefly across his face. Iris flits her eyes between Mycroft and what honestly must be a figment of her imagination. It’s happened before so of course it would happen again...  


“I’m so sorry, Iris, I hate that we deceived you.” Sherlock’s low baritone of a voice calls out, nearly sending Iris to her knees. Her hallucinations never sounded this accurate.  


“No, no!” Iris shouts as she closes her eyes, rubbing the heels of her palms over them in a desperate attempt to make the hallucination go away. “You jumped off that building, you were dead. We buried you and this is all just in my head.” Iris opens her eyes to Sherlock still standing in front of her, pity on his face as he tries to let the shock wear off her.  


“This is not in your head, Iris, truly.” Sherlock says calmly, taking a step closer with his hands offered up in a sign of trust. Iris looks to Mycroft who stays standing stoically behind his desk. Sherlock’s voice pulls her focus back. “Moriarty forced our hand, I had to fake my death to disappear. To untangle his massive web and finally destroy Moriarty once and for all.”  


Iris locks eyes with Sherlock, his crystal blue irises alive and staring back at her. It knocks the wind out of her. Iris averts her gaze and closes her eyes one last time, hoping maybe this time the hallucination will disappear. Upon opening them, tears threaten to overflow as this image of Sherlock before her is indeed real.  


Tentatively, Iris reaches out her hand and makes contact with Sherlock’s forearm. The soft material of his suit feels cool against her fingertips, but the warm body underneath takes any breath she had left clean away. Exhaling shakily as tears spill over, unable to contain the mixture of emotions, Iris firmly grabs Sherlock’s wrist, feeling his strong and steady pulse in her hand. She reaches her other hand up to try and muffle the sobs that escape her mouth, while Sherlock covers her hand with his.  


“Oh my god.” Iris manages to get out from behind her hand, tears still streaming down her face. “You’re alive, you’re... actually alive.” Iris stutters out.  


“Very much so.” Sherlock says with a tiny grin. Iris releases her grip from Sherlock, taking a moment to wipe the tears off her cheeks and taking a deep breath.  


“I want to ask how but at the moment I kind of don’t care.” Iris whispers quietly, still in shock at Sherlock standing before her. She turns to Mycroft. “You knew? Is that why you didn’t speak at the funeral...” Iris asks, Mycroft clearing his throat uncomfortably.  


“Yes, ah it was strictly need-to-know...” Mycroft trails off, Iris shaking her head.  


“Of course it was. I can’t believe Philip was right.” Iris says incredulously, staring up at the ceiling to try and blink back the tears.  


“Philip? Philip Anderson?” Sherlock asks, confused at the name.  


“Yes. He’s been convinced you survived that fall, he has pestered Lestrade with all these theories and ideas of how you did it. We both thought he was out of his mind...” Iris rubs her hands back over her eyes, the tears fading but the emotion of it all hitting her with a nasty headache. Mycroft shifts a few things on his desk before looking to Sherlock.  


“You really should be going, now that this is all finished.” Mycroft says casually.  


“‘All finished?’” Iris looks up, baffled he could think a revelation of this magnitude could be handled in the not even five minutes it’s been. She still has so many questions, and this brush off does not help matters. Sherlock adjusts his cuffs uneasily.  


“Maybe not ‘all finished,’ but I do have to head out. I have to see John.” Sherlock explains.  


“John’s going to kill you.” Iris realizes with a hollow laugh, nearly forgetting the other person who’s grieved Sherlock’s death just as much as, if not more than, she has.  


“I was going to surprise him, I think he’ll be delighted.” Sherlock says simply, a plan already formulated in his head. Iris shakes her head.  


“You think so?” Iris asks, wiping away the last of the tears and crossing her arms in an attempt to self-soothe. Mycroft seems less enthused with this idea as well, shaking his head with a sigh.  


“Pop into Baker Street, who knows, jump out of a cake.” Sherlock ponders aloud.  


“Baker Street? He isn’t there anymore.” Mycroft responds, coming around the side of his desk. Sherlock’s face seems shocked at the thought. “Why would he be? It’s been two years.” Mycroft furthers.  


“If you think he’ll enjoy you jumping out of a cake, then we know two _very_ different John Watsons.” Iris warns, Sherlock looking between the two of them perplexed.  


“He’s got on with his life.” Mycroft adds, Sherlock smirking like it’s a joke.  


“What life? I’ve been away. Where’s he going to be tonight?” Sherlock asks, Iris having forgotten how quickly his brain works as it jumps from thought to thought.  


“How would I know?” Mycroft asks, annoyed.  


“You always know.” Sherlock and Iris say at the exact same time. Sherlock smirks at Mycroft’s annoyance.  


“He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 St. Emilion, though I prefer the 2001.” Mycroft admits.  


“I think maybe I’ll just drop by.” Sherlock says casually, Iris’ brain finally catching up with her.  


“You can’t!” She calls out, both Holmes brothers looking to her. “It’s just, uh... well, tonight is... he’s got this-” She pauses, unsure of how Sherlock will react to John’s engagement plans.  


“You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.” Mycroft furthers, turning to his brother. Sherlock scoffs in response.  


“No, it isn’t. Now, where is it?” Sherlock demands, completely disregarding Iris.  


“Where’s what?” Mycroft asks.  


“You know what.” Sherlock retorts. Suddenly, Anthea is at the door, Belstaff in hand ready for Sherlock to slip into. The sight of the coat and the man sliding into it still takes a few moments to fully register in Iris’ brain. This just cannot be and yet somehow it is.  


“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.” Anthea says coolly, collar popped up just the way it always was for Sherlock. John is most definitely going to kill him, Iris just knows it.  


Before she can say another word, Sherlock flounces out, Iris still wondering if at any moment she may wake up and realize this never happened. But she doesn’t, Mycroft simply moves back to his chair behind his desk and resumes whatever paperwork he has.  


“I guess that’s that, then... any other major revelations you care to share with me tonight?” Iris asks Mycroft, who doesn’t look up from his work.  


“No, that’ll be all.”  


Utterly confused, and still not entirely sure if any of that actually happened, Iris sits in the back of another one of Mycroft’s cars and heads back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson, still out thankfully, left some soup in the fridge for Iris to eat. Puttering around in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen for a few hours, Iris tries to process the idea of Sherlock coming back from ‘the dead.’  


Memories of Sherlock in front of her intertwine with memories of him crumpled on the pavement, and soon Iris splashes ice cold water on her face to try and keep herself planted in the present. Cleaning up her dishes, Iris heads to her old front door, taking a big deep breath in preparation.  


The flat looks identical to how she left it, other than a few large sheets having been thrown over the couch and armchair. Dust, similar to the flat above, dances around her in the early evening light as she slowly unpacks the few things from her suitcase. Hanging her dark navy dress in the closet to loosen some wrinkles, Iris suddenly has to sit on the edge of the bed to collect herself. Her breathing increases, heart rapidly beating in her ears as memories of Sherlock’s funeral come forward. She packed so quickly Iris didn’t realize that the dress she grabbed was the same one she wore when they buried Sherlock. Or at least when she thought they buried Sherlock.  


Unsure if she could actually say whether or not Sherlock was alive, Iris feels extremely alone and unable to process the barrage of emotions attacking her. The grief and heartache physically makes Iris rub at her chest, while a strange mixture of relief and anger produces more tears that begin to spill down her cheeks.  


Realizing this is not the best situation for her to be in at the moment, Iris manages to find her phone and dial the emergency number for her therapist’s office. Without going into specific details, Iris stumbles her way through a brief explanation of her current state, and Cathy spends almost a solid hour talking her back down to some semblance of calm.  


Cathy says another pill from her ‘just in case’ bottle is warranted, waiting on speakerphone while Iris goes to retrieve it. Soon the call falls to simple silence, Iris just breathing and finding solace in knowing Cathy is there. They hang up with a plan for Iris to check back in the following morning, Cathy offering some breathing exercises and a few online videos with some soothing sounds to hopefully help Iris fall asleep.  


Between the call and the meds, Iris maintains her newfound calmness as she readies herself for bed. Showering helps, the warm water invigorating and reaffirming that she is, in fact, awake and alive. Dressed in her comfiest pajamas, Iris sits in the plush armchair sipping on a warm mug of chamomile tea.  


The key in the front door doesn’t surprise Iris, as she’s sure it’s Mrs. Hudson coming back from her book club. Though it does seem a bit later than Iris remembers... Curious, and wanting to make sure it’s actually Mrs. Hudson, Iris steps into her slippers and heads out her door. To her surprise, Sherlock stands before her, Belstaff still on, nursing a fairly bad bloody nose. She can just barely make him out in the dim lighting.  


“Sherlock?” Iris asks, taking a step towards him.  


“He wasn’t exactly pleased to see me.” Sherlock utters quietly, Iris hearing the disappointment and hurt in his voice.  


“Come here, let me look at that.” Iris reaches out, still shocked when her hands are met with a living human being. She leads him down to her apartment, settling him in one of the chairs at the small island counter before searching for a clean cloth to wet. She joins in the seat next to him, Sherlock tilting his head back a bit more as he dabs with an old tissue.  


Iris reaches up gently to take it from him, setting the tissue on the counter and replacing it with the cool cloth in her hand. He winces at the pressure, Iris also noticing his bottom lip has split.  


“John didn’t seem to hold back.” she says quietly, Sherlock only sighing in response. Iris moves one of Sherlock’s hands to hold onto the cloth as she checks under the sink for the first aid kit.  


Grateful for an activity to busy her hands, Iris manages to stay focused on prepping the various items for Sherlock. She returns with some gauze and when she shifts Sherlock’s hand slightly his eyes spring open, blue irises stopping her mid-motion. Blinking away the memory as best as she can, Iris tries to focus on the split lip.  


“I take it the cake popping out plan didn’t work like you wanted it to?” Iris asks quietly, glad when Sherlock closes his eyes again.  


“I thought after the way you reacted John might do the same, but he was just so... angry. Not exactly my best timing.” Sherlock admits sheepishly.  


“That wasn’t always your strong suit. I’m sure he was just shocked...” Iris dabs a bit of ointment before sticking the small butterfly band aid to the cut.  


“He didn’t want to hear anything about how I did it or the fact that we all did it to stop Moriarty, he just got so upset...”  


Iris gently pulls the cloth down from Sherlock’s nose, glad to see it not actively still bleeding. She pauses.  


“We all? You mean there were more people than your brother?”  


Sherlock hangs his head, looking to the counter.  


“Yes, well... Molly Hooper, she- uh...” Sherlock trails off.  


“Oh my god... I thought she was just on her own grieving, but she was ignoring me because she knew. Who else?” Iris demands, hurt that she wasn’t deemed worthy enough to be in on this ‘plan.’  


“Some of my homeless network.” Sherlock admits.  


“So your brother, Molly Hooper, and a bunch of random strangers?” Iris leans against the counter next to her. “How? No, not how, why? Why not loop me and John in? Were we really that untrustworthy?” Iris asks incredulously.  


“No, it had nothing to do with my lack of trust in you, I didn’t have a choice.” Sherlock reaches back up with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.  


“You always have a choice, Sherlock.” Iris says coldly, unsure of how Molly Hooper could be trusted over her, or even John for that matter.  


“It’s not that simple.” Sherlock says quietly.  


“Well then, explain it to me. All of it.” Iris sits back in her chair, turned towards Sherlock and ready to listen. Sherlock, unsure of quite where to start, begins to speak.  


“The criminal network Moriarty headed was vast. Its roots were everywhere, like a cancer, so we came up with a plan. Mycroft fed Moriarty information about me. Moriarty, in turn, gave us hints, just hints as to the extent of his web. We let him go, because it was important to let him believe he had the upper hand. And then I sat back and watched Moriarty destroy my reputation bit by bit. I had to make him believe he’d beaten me, utterly defeated me, then he’d show his hand.”  


“So the whole bit about Mycroft ‘accidentally’ giving him all the ammunition needed to destroy you?”  


“Planned from the beginning.” Sherlock says simply.  


Iris picks at a piece of skin on the edge of her thumb, thinking back to her and John tearing into Mycroft over, what he made seem like, a gross error in judgement.  


“And the roof? You sent John and I away because you knew we’d never let you up there alone. Why? We could have helped you.”  


Sherlock shakes his head.  


“We couldn’t risk it. It wasn’t just my reputation that Moriarty needed to bury. I had to die... There were 13 likely scenarios once we were up on that roof. Each of them were rigorously worked out and given a code name.” Sherlock dabs the towel back on his nose, trying to wipe away some of the dried blood. Iris recalls her conversation with Greg earlier that morning.  


“Wait, though, what about Moriarty killing himself?” She asks, Sherlock sighing.  


“The one thing I didn’t anticipate was just how far Moriarty was prepared to go. I suppose that was obvious, given our first meeting at the swimming pool; his death wish. He revealed that the computer code he touted as the key to unlocking any door was nothing more than a string of daylight robberies. Along with those who helped him then were four snipers with their sights trained on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, and you.” Sherlock pauses, Iris understanding that this was not part of their anticipated plan.  


“That’s why you picked Molly.” Iris realizes. “Initially, I mean. Moriarty thought she didn’t matter to you, so he didn’t bother threatening her life...”  


“Yes... While we hadn’t expected he would go as far as snipers, I had to trust someone who Moriarty would never expect... I’m glad I did.” Sherlock offers a small smile. The smile fades as he continues his story. “He said there was no stopping them, that no matter what we did the snipers wouldn’t back down unless they saw me jump. I thought I’d managed to gain the upper hand when I realized that if I had Moriarty there must be some sort of code or signal he could give that would stop them.” Sherlock looks off towards the sink, memories from that day pausing his voice. “The look on his face when he made the decision... He shook my hand and...” Sherlock inhales sharply, trying to forget. “He shot himself in the head.”  


“With all the chaos that that day was, I didn’t even know he was dead until this morning. Nearly two years later... I can’t imagine that was easy by any means, seeing that.” Iris adds, Sherlock’s eyes still lost in thought. She gently takes the cloth from his hand and rises to rinse it out at the sink.  


“He thanked me before he did it.” Sherlock adds softly. Iris turns to him at the sink.  


“Thanked you?”  


“He must have thought he finally found a worthy opponent... but it cost so much, his game...” Sherlock trails off, lost in thought again. Iris returns with the clean cloth and tries to get his attention so she can help remove more of the dried blood. Sherlock’s eyes meet hers, Iris choosing to look him anywhere but in the eye. Sherlock tilts his head in confusion, eyebrows knitting together in a question.  


“It’s nothing.” Iris tries to brush off. She focuses on Sherlock’s nose, avoiding his gaze as best she can. Sherlock reaches up a hand to stop Iris, hoping to get her to look at him. Iris takes a deep breath and braves a look. Sherlock’s eyes are clear and alive and right in front of her, but the memory of them bloody and unmoving flash to the forefront, causing Iris to drop the towel on the counter and move away. Safely on the other side of the room, Iris leans against the back of the couch and rubs a hand over her face. Sherlock turns in his chair to look at her.  


“Your eyes.” Iris says after a moment of collection. Sherlock doesn’t respond, just leaves room for Iris to continue if she wants. “When they carted you away, your eyes were so... blank. My memory is a vast and strange thing; it’s great for remembering all the things that make me happy and bring me joy... but it is also most unforgiving when it comes to the trauma.”  


Sherlock hangs his head, shaking it back and forth.  


“I’m sorry. It was never my intention, I... Mycroft and I, we...” Sherlock tries to find the words but stumbles and lacks the ability to clearly say what he’s feeling. Iris, desperate to change the subject, moves to make some more tea.  


“How did you and Mycroft manage to do it? Of all the scenarios, which one won out in the end?” She asks casually, filling up the tea kettle and putting it on the stove. Sherlock, grateful for the small reprieve, takes it.  


“ _Lazarus._ I knew I didn’t have long. I contacted my brother, set the wheels in motion. And then everyone got to work. It was vital that you and John stayed just where I’d put you, that way your view was blocked by the ambulance station.”  


“View of what?”  


“An airbag, giant and filled just as you two were about to pull up. I landed right on it, but speed was paramount. The air bag needed to be got out of the way just as you both cleared the station. But we needed you to see a body. That’s where Molly came in. Like figures on a weather clock, we went one way, while you two went the other. Then our well-timed cyclist put John, and you, briefly out of action, giving me time to switch places with the corpse on the pavement.”  


Iris stares at the counter, pressing down memories as best she can, the whistle of the kettle pulling her back.  


“The rest was just window dressing.” Sherlock fiddles with the cloth in his hands.  


“I remember watching John feel for your pulse... how did...?” Iris barely gets out, trying desperately to stay in the present.  


“Squash ball under the armpit. Apply enough pressure and it momentarily cuts off the pulse.” Sherlock responds, Iris closing her eyes as she remembers Sherlock sitting in Molly’s lab tossing that small squash ball against the counter. “Everything was anticipated, every eventuality allowed for. It worked perfectly,” he adds, proudly.  


“Yeah, just perfectly.” Iris replies, a bit colder than she intended, Sherlock grimacing in regret. Iris pours out two cups of tea.  


“Not perfectly, but for what we needed to accomplish, it all worked out how it needed to.”  


“What about the snipers aiming at John and me?” Iris asks. “If everyone was in on it, how did Moriarty’s men not-”  


“I sent word and Mycroft’s men intervened before they could take their shots. They were invited to reconsider.”  


“And your homeless network?” Iris hands Sherlock his cup.  


“The whole street was closed off. Like a scene from a play.”  


“Well, hat’s off to you; you fooled the whole world, myself and John most of all... Philip Anderson’s going to have a field day when he finds out.” Iris offers teasingly, earning an eye roll from Sherlock.  


“Yes, I’m sure... but please don’t say anything about my return. At least not yet...”  


“Ah, _now_ you’d like me to keep your secret?” Iris teases, trying not to sound as annoyed as she feels. “Why did you return? I mean, why now?”  


“It took me two years to dismantle Moriarty’s web. I had some work down in Serbia that was the last piece of his nightmarish puzzle...” Sherlock shifts somewhat uncomfortably in his chair.  


“Serbia?”  


“Nasty bit of work, almost blew my cover but I got myself out of it. Or rather, Mycroft will say that he got me out of it.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Apparently there’s an underground terror cell operating in London and there’s a massive terror strike threatening the city. One of Mycroft’s men died getting them this information, whatever that means.” Sherlock says casually. Iris’ eyes widen as she sets down her tea cup in front of her on the counter.  


“Like an actual terrorist attack? Here?”  


Sherlock nods as he takes a sip of his tea.  


“And they have absolutely no idea where or how it’ll happen. So naturally, I’m on the case.” Sherlock attempts a small smile. “I tried to ask John for his help and, well...” Sherlock motions to his nose. “He wasn’t quite ready to jump on board yet.”  


Mrs. Hudson returning from her book club pulls Iris’ attention before she can respond. Sherlock tenses in his seat.  


“Well, I guess I should go disappoint another person with my existence.” Sherlock starts to stand from his seat, Iris holding out a hand to stop him.  


“Hey, Sherlock, your existence will never be a disappointment.” Iris manages to get Sherlock to look at her, braving his blue eyes to make sure he understands her. “It may be a shock, it may take some time for the anger or upset to wear off, but it will never, ever be disappointing to know you are not dead.”  


Sherlock stands there quietly, unsure of how to respond. Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps grow closer. Iris picks back up her cup and lowers her voice. “Let her be for the night, knowing some of her book club ladies from before I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a bit tipsy. You can let her know when you’re ready.” Iris smiles, Sherlock nodding as Mrs. Hudson disappears into her flat.  


“I should probably head out... Thank you for,” Sherlock motions to his face, Iris reaching into the first aid kit for an ice pack.  


“Here, just shake this up and it’ll help with the swelling.” Sherlock takes it with a nod. “I’m here until Sunday, so if you decide to stop by and tell Mrs. Hudson before then I can help soften the shock. She’ll be so pleased to see you, just as I’m sure John is, or will be.”  


“Thank you. Goodnight, Iris.” Sherlock buttons up his coat and quietly makes his way out of 221B.  


Iris spends the next hour debating calling or texting John, trying to find someone she can process all this information with. Deciding against it, Iris does her best to climb into bed and sleep.  


The next day passes calmly, no word from John or Sherlock. Iris spends the day with Mrs. Hudson, desperately trying to focus on baking or food shopping and not about the major secret she’s hiding from her. They get through the day without incident, until later that evening when Mrs. Hudson is washing dishes. Iris hears the front door of 221B slowly creak open, her drying rag pausing on a plate. Mrs. Hudson, spooked, takes the massive frying pan from the rack and goes to her front door.  


Ready to fry whoever’s come through the door, Mrs. Hudson freezes when the person in the foyer is Sherlock. About to speak, Sherlock takes a step forward, but Mrs. Hudson cuts him off with one of the loudest, craziest screams Iris has ever heard. Standing behind her, Iris can’t believe such a massive sound could come out of such a tiny lady.  


Mrs. Hudson drops her frying pan, Iris’ quick reflexes catching it before it clatters to the ground. Sherlock, glued into place and unsure of what to do, seems terrified that he’s made a horrible mistake in returning. But Mrs. Hudson, being the incredible warm and loving human she is, doesn’t say another word, just opens her arms and envelopes Sherlock in the biggest hug she can manage.  


Sherlock doesn’t react at first, his arms down by his side, but once Mrs. Hudson starts crying and saying over and over how glad she is that he’s alive, slowly he encloses her in his arms. Sherlock’s height difference is comical with how tiny Mrs. Hudson is, but Iris smiles nonetheless. Over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder, Sherlock looks to Iris with a small grin.  


“I told you she wouldn’t be disappointed.” Iris turns to set the frying pan back in the kitchen and give them some time alone.  


Mrs. Hudson is so pleased with Sherlock’s return that she doesn’t even ask how he survived or why he left in the first place. Even with it being almost ten o’clock that evening, Mrs. Hudson begins heating up leftovers from their dinner and forcing Sherlock into a chair in her kitchen while she rushes upstairs to clean and ready Sherlock’s room for him. Iris keeps him company as they listen to her frantic footsteps and vacuuming upstairs.  


“She doesn’t have to do all that, I’m perfectly fine staying where I am at the moment.” Sherlock pokes his fork into some potatoes, after a particularly loud clang is heard above. Iris shakes her head and sips on her tea.  


“I tried that when I told her I was coming back for the week. I didn’t know if she had rented out the flats or not, so I started to make arrangements elsewhere but she nearly chewed my ear off through the phone in telling me no.”  


Sherlock smiles as he absently takes a bite.  


Well, I’m glad because I actually hate staying with Mycroft. His house is just awful.”  


Iris chuckles behind her mug, glad to see Sherlock eating as in the brighter lighting of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen it’s clear that Sherlock is much thinner than when he faked his death. His cheeks are a bit sallower and his tailored suit hangs almost too large on him. Sherlock pushes around more of his food instead of eating it.  


“You really should eat, I know how you hate it.” Iris eyes him playfully. “But Mrs. Hudson will be upset if she doesn’t come back to a finished plate.”  


Sherlock sighs in resignation, working his way through the potatoes and broccoli before cutting into some of the chicken Iris helped fry up earlier. Her cup empty, Iris rises to put it in the sink, accidentally knocking over a spoon as she moves. Both her and Sherlock move to pick it up, Sherlock pulling back suddenly with a loud wince, his back clearly in pain from something. His hand goes to his shoulder, trying to soothe whatever was hurting.  


“You okay?” Iris asks, still down towards the floor, spoon now in hand. Sherlock nods, trying to brush it off. “Come on, what is it?”  


“It’s nothing. Just some residual pain from my time in Serbia.” Sherlock moves to pick back up his fork and continue eating.  


“Serbia, where you blew your cover and Mycroft had to step in?” Iris asks, unconvinced that this is ‘nothing.’  


“There may have been a few... lashings as they tried to get information from me.” Sherlock admits under Iris’ unwavering stare. Shocked, Iris lowers herself back into her seat.  


“Oh Sherlock, really? Torture? Are you, I mean it sounds silly to ask if you’re okay, but are-” Iris starts, Sherlock cutting her off.  


“I am fine. Nothing that won’t heal. Now please, let’s change the subject.” Sherlock says firmly, ending the conversation. Iris doesn’t respond, only rises to place her cup in the sink.  


Frustrated, and unable to let it go, Iris turns back to Sherlock, response on her lips, only to see the quiet plea in his face. Iris holds up her hands in surrender, leaning back against the counter.  


“Fine. But that’s a lot, for anyone, to handle. You shouldn’t have to deal with it by yourself, that’s all I’m saying.” Having managed to say something about it, Iris tries switching topics.  


“Did you happen to meet John’s girlfriend? Or fiancé, if he actually worked up the nerve to ask her.”  


“Yes, her name is Mary. She’s quite nice.”  


“I’m sure you deduced more than ‘nice,’ come on.” Iris teases. “Does she actually like John’s moustache?”  


Sherlock grins and shakes his head, making Iris laugh.  


“I mean I can understand the whole ‘changing your appearance because it’s one thing you can actually control,’ but that just did not fit his face.”  


“I like my doctors cleanshaven.” Sherlock says with a smirk, finishing the last of his food. “I don’t think John knew Mary disliked it though, bit of a shock.” He admits.  


“I think it’s safe to say we’ve established that you and timing are not always the best.”  


“Yes, it appears so... He is proper angry at me.” Sherlock says after a moment. “And he’s right, he’s absolutely right to be angry...”  


“And he probably will be, for a while. Did you apologize?”  


“Yes, of course.”  


“In your usual ‘I’m sorry’ way or was it sincere?” Iris warns, knowing the difference between those are quite severe when it comes to Sherlock.  


“It was my intention to be sincere... but I’m afraid it didn’t quite come across that way...” Sherlock concedes.  


“Give him some time... I’m still not one hundred percent on board that you’re really alive, and you’re sitting right in front of me.” Iris admits. Sherlock looks off for a moment, trying to find the right way to ask his question.  


“You mentioned hallucinating ‘again,’ was that a frequent occurrence, or...”  


Iris stiffens, realizing what he might be getting at.  


“I’m sure Mycroft told you-”  


Sherlock shakes his head before she can continue.  


“I was gone for so long, out of contact with everyone... Mycroft mentioned things had been... difficult for you. And with Melinda’s passing... He did mention a psychiatry ward...”  


Iris inhales, crossing her arms again for comfort as she tries to find a way to muscle through this particular topic.  


“Difficult is correct, though probably a bit of an understatement...” Iris studies Sherlock, deciding whether or not to fully discuss this with him. “I mean, it is what it is, I thought you died and I grieved.” Iris shrugs, hoping that would be it.  


Sherlock’s look of concern without any pity in his eyes spurs her to explain further. “I didn’t grieve in the healthiest of manors, and thanks to my fantastic,” she sardonically tosses out that word, “memory, things were only amplified more. I was really stupid with some sleeping pills and it landed me in a psych ward for a few months. I used to hallucinate you coming back and whisking me off on some adventure with John, but it was just a figment of my very broken mind. Now it’s been almost seven months on my meds and therapy and it’s evened out... I’ve evened out.” Iris adds, picking at an invisible piece of lint on her sleeve.  


“I am sorry I was the cause of your grief. I mean that as sincerely as possible.” Sherlock lowers his gaze. “I thought about trying to reach out to you both, in some small way, so many times...” Iris almost laughs, Sherlock’s voice pitiful but actually sincere.  


“That’s the thing about the past, no matter the outcome you can’t go back and change it.”  


Mrs. Hudson’s voice upstairs interrupts the conversation, Sherlock rising to leave. He pauses before passing Iris, wanting to say more but hesitant. Iris places her hand on his elbow, the corners of her mouth turning up.  


"It’s good to have you back, Sherlock. Really.”  


Sherlock, unsure of how to respond, simply nods and places his hand over hers. They stand there for a moment before Mrs. Hudson calls again.  


With the upstairs flat back into some semblance of ‘clean’ and ‘tidy’ (or at least by the very lowest of Mrs. Hudson’s standards), Sherlock turns in for the night. Iris listens to his footsteps upstairs as she heads back to her flat, climbing into bed and turning out the light.  


Realization in the dark hits Iris as she remembers tomorrow she’s meeting with Susie to collect whatever Melinda’s left for her. She does not feel entirely prepared to pay her respects to someone she knew for such a short period of time...  


Thinking back to sweet Melinda, who helped her try and locate the craftsman who made her necklace, Iris smiles. Melinda was on board almost as much as Iris was in her excitement to solve the puzzle. She tries to think of what Melinda could possibly leave behind for her, maybe some necklaces or other jewelry from her store?  


After everything that happened following Sherlock’s death, Iris couldn’t handle the constant reminder hanging around her neck. She ended up storing it away in her jewelry box, out of sight at Sam’s. Unable to bring herself to put it on again when she left for the airport, but scared to lose it, Iris tucked it away in her purse in a small drawstring bag. That way she knows where it is, but doesn’t have as bad of memory resurges whenever she’d notice it against her skin. In the dark, Iris reaches up to feel the empty space at her collarbone, traces of the chain still echoing on her fingertips. Iris falls asleep thinking of silver and gold chains tangled together.  


The early morning light seeps in through Iris’ window, as she rolls over in the soft sheets and yawns. Music, faint and quiet, above pulls Iris further into consciousness, realizing who is actually making that music. Rising from her bed and shrugging into one of her comfiest cardigans, Iris steps into her slippers and heads out the door. As she climbs the stairs the music grows louder, beautiful violin sweeping through a melody. Sherlock’s front door is open, and Iris watches from the doorway as he stands by the window, like he has hundreds of times before, playing and composing.  


Sherlock must have heard her footsteps coming up, because he doesn’t seem surprised to see her standing there, watching. It’s only when he turns away from the window to add another note to his sheet that he looks over to Iris, smiling as he sets his pencil back down.  


“It’s like I’ve been sent back in time, I keep looking over my shoulder for some sort of time machine. You sound lovely, Sherlock.” Iris wraps her cardigan around her, glad for the warmth. Sherlock hums some sort of reply as he picks back up his violin and continues.  


Mrs. Hudson answers a knock at the front door, footsteps trailing up pull Iris’ head when suddenly it’s Mycroft. Realizing she’s still in her pajamas, Iris tries to straighten herself up a bit, hoping she doesn’t have any crazy bedhead. Mycroft pauses at first seeing her, then offers a polite nod before walking into the flat.  


“Sherlock, shouldn’t you be working?” Mycroft warns, moving to John’s old chair and casually settling in. Sherlock ignores him until he reaches the end of whatever phrase he was working on.  


“I am, Mycroft. This helps me think.” Sherlock marks a few more notes down before fully turning to acknowledge his brother. “What can I do for you today, brother dear?”  


“Just thought I’d drop in, seeing as how you’ve moved back officially. It’s been quite some time since I could just pop by, can’t that be enough?” Mycroft asks with an air of offence, Iris just catching Sherlock’s eye roll as he puts his violin away.  


“How about a game of chess?” Sherlock asks, motioning to the board mostly set up by the couch. Mycroft crinkles his nose at the thought.  


“Please no, I can’t stand how long it takes people to play, I’ve always figured out the checkmate within the first three moves.”  


“You could always try Operation.” Iris teases, motioning to a small stack of board games Mrs. Hudson must have stashed up here while cleaning. Only offering it as a joke, Iris can hardly believe when Sherlock pulls out the box and begins to set it up on a small coffee table between the two chairs. Curious to see the Holmes brothers attempt a board game as trivial as Operation, Iris settles down on the couch to watch. Absentmindedly, she plays with some of the chess pieces before her, trying to figure out how Mycroft can win the game so quickly.  


Competition is high between the two brothers, each of them moving methodically and calmly as they attempt to remove the various body parts without setting off the tiny buzzer. Sherlock tries to distract his brother with talk of various medicinal uses for plastic in the human body, but Mycroft refuses to fall for it.  


“All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical.”  


“Boring. Your move.” Sherlock responds, setting down the small set of tweezers.  


“We have solid information, an attack is coming.” Mycroft warns, lowering his voice. Iris shifts her gaze down to the chess board in front of her.  


“Solid information? A secret terrorist organization is planning an attack. That’s what secret terrorist organizations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf.”  


“An agent gave his life to tell us that.” Mycroft’s voice warns in a low tone.  


“Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. He was obviously just trying to show off.” Sherlock retorts quickly, Iris letting out a snort of laughter. Mycroft turns his head to glare at her, Iris trying to pass it off as a cough as she resumes her chess game with herself. Annoyed, Mycroft turns back to Sherlock.  


“None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously? Your move.” Mycroft hands off the tweezers, Sherlock gritting his teeth.  


“No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer. But it’ll be in an odd phrase in an online blog or an unexpected trip to the countryside or a misplaced lonely hearts ad. Your move.”  


Iris notices through the mirror above the fireplace that there are some photos and papers stuck to the wall above the couch. Turning around to better see them, Iris tries to work out who the different folks in the pictures are, and how they are all connected. These must be Sherlock’s ‘markers’ somehow.  


“I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.”  


“I am on the case, we’re both on the case, look at us right now-”  


A loud _buzz_ interrupts them, Iris turning back to see Mycroft looking over the board.  


“Oh, bugger!” He shouts.  


“Oopsy. Can’t handle a broken heart. How very telling.” Sherlock mocks, leaning back in his chair.  


“Don’t be smart.” Mycroft warns.  


“That takes me back.” Sherlock laughs, looking to Iris with a grin. “‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock, I’m the smart one,’” he mocks, pitching his voice high and making a silly face.  


“I am the smart one.” Mycroft nearly growls out, eyes bearing down at Sherlock.  


“I used to think I was an idiot,” Sherlock clarifies for Iris.  


“Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on, until we met other children.” Mycroft explains as he too leans back in his seat. Mirroring positions it is quite clear this must be a ‘Holmes’ trait between them.  


“Oh, yes, that was a mistake.” Sherlock shakes his head.  


“Ghastly. What were they thinking of?” Iris offers mockingly, Mycroft nodding his head in agreement rather than understanding the joke.  


“Probably something about trying to make friends.” Sherlock attempts to explain, both he and Iris confused at the social workings of Mycroft Holmes.  


“Oh yes, _friends._ ” Mycroft’s voice drips in mockery at the word. Then, with a tilt of his head, he continues. “Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.”  


“And you don’t? Ever?” Sherlock asks seriously.  


“If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.” Mycroft explains with an air of simplicity like this is natural for someone like him. Sherlock doesn’t buy it and begins to steeple his fingers under his chin, staring down his brother.  


“Yes, but I’ve been away for two years.”  


“So?”  


“Oh I don’t know, I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a... goldfish.”  


“Change the subject, now.” Mycroft urges, rising from his seat.  


“Rest assured, Mycroft, whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre.”  


Mrs. Hudson enters the flat, interrupting the conversation with her cheery ‘Ooh-hoo,’ Iris didn’t realize she missed. That sound usually meant there were cookies or food of some kind ready to be eaten. Mrs. Hudson sets down a tray on the desk and turns to Sherlock with the most radiant of smiles.  


“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Him sitting in his chair again. Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Mr. Holmes?” She asks, looking to Mycroft by the fireplace.  


“I can barely contain myself.” Mycroft says sarcastically.  


“Oh, he really can, you know.” Sherlock offers from his chair.  


“He’s secretly pleased to see you underneath all that.” Iris calls out from the couch, Mrs. Hudson turning with a chuckle.  


“Exactly right.” She adds.  


“Sorry, which of us?” Mycroft asks, missing the point.  


“Both of you.” Mrs. Hudson finishes before heading out the door.  


“Let’s play something different.” Sherlock claps his hands together, Mycroft groaning.  


“Why are we playing games?” He scoffs.  


“London’s terror alert has been raised to critical, he’s just passing the time.” Iris answers humorously from the couch, moving to put the chess pieces back neatly in the small drawer in the board.  


“Let’s do deductions.” Sherlock announces proudly, rising from his seat and moving towards the desk. A well-worn knit hat sits on the end of the table, Sherlock reaching for it as he explains. “Client left this behind, what do you reckon?” Sherlock asks as he tosses it across the room to Mycroft. Almost as if in slow motion, Iris can see the calculated gaze of Mycroft taking in the article of clothing before snatching it out of the air.  


“I’m busy.” Mycroft attempts to brush off.  


“Oh, go on, it’s been an age.” Sherlock presses, as Mycroft brings the hat to his nose to sniff. He looks up at Sherlock.  


“I always win.” He warns.  


“Which is why you can’t resist.” Sherlock prods him again.  


“I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled, anxious, sentimental, unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis.” Mycroft pauses after that long-winded sentence, realizing how great that felt. “Damn.” He admits before tossing the hat back to Sherlock.  


“Isolated, too, don’t you think?”  


“Why would he be isolated?” Mycroft asks.  


“He?” Iris offers, rising from her spot to join Sherlock in the middle of the room.  


“Obviously.” Mycroft waves a hand, Sherlock offering the hat to Iris to examine.  


“Why? Size of the hat?” Iris attempts, trying to figure out where they managed to deduce all these traits of a man so quickly.  


“Don’t be silly. Some women have large heads, too.” Mycroft corrects. “No, he’s recently had his hair cut, you can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside.”  


Iris turns the hat over in her hands to see what he means, then tosses it back to Sherlock. “Some women have short hair, too.” Iris meekly tries to justify her initial thought.  


“Balance of probability.” Mycroft retorts.  


“Not that you’ve ever spoken to a woman with short hair, or, you know, a woman.” Sherlock mutters under his breath, still loud enough for Mycroft to hear.  


“Stains show he’s out of condition.” Mycroft says through gritted teeth, flatly ignoring Sherlock. “And he’s sentimental because the hat has been repaired three-”  


“Five times,” Sherlock interrupts, tossing the hat quickly to Mycroft. “Very neatly. The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he’s mawkishly attached to it. But it’s more than that. One, perhaps two patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five’s obsessive behavior. Obsessive-compulsive.”  


“Hardly. Your client left it behind.” Iris points out. “What sort of obsessive-compulsive would do that?”  


“The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he’s worn it abroad, in Peru.” Mycroft continues, tossing the hat back to Sherlock.  


“Peru?” Iris asks.  


“This is a Chullo. The classic headgear of Andes, it’s made of Alpaca.” Mycroft furthers, moving away from the fireplace towards the front door.  


“No. Icelandic sheep wool.” Sherlock stops his brother before he can pass him and Iris. “Similar but very distinctive, if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibers.” Sherlock explains proudly.  


“I’m sure there’s a crying need for that.” Mrs. Hudson returns with a pot of tea, nearly startling Iris behind her. Still curious about the hat, Iris tries to piece out more of what they’ve discovered.  


“You said he was anxious?” Iris asks, Mycroft pointing out to the hat in Sherlock’s hand.  


“The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he’s a man of a nervous disposition but-”  


“But also a creature of habit because he hasn’t chewed the bobble on the right!” Iris calls out, pleased with herself to have worked out at least one of these deductions.  


“Precisely.” Mycroft answers almost impressed with her. Sherlock raises the hat to his nose for a whiff of his own, pulling back with disgust.  


"A brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath. Brilliant.” Sherlock turns away.  


“Elementary.” Mycroft says pleasantly.  


“But you’ve missed his isolation.” Sherlock offers.  


“I don’t see it.” Mycroft responds, offended.  


“Plain as day.”  


“Where?” Iris asks.  


“There for all to see.” Sherlock mocks, turning his back to them.  


“Tell me.” Mycroft requests calmly.  


“Plain as the nose-”  


“Tell me!” Mycroft demands, causing Sherlock to turn back around.  


“Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn’t in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?”  


“Not at all. Maybe he just doesn’t mind being different. He doesn’t necessarily have to be isolated.” Mycroft explains, pleased with his reasoning. Sherlock takes a beat before seemingly changing tactics.  


“Exactly.”  


“I’m sorry?” Mycroft asks, sensing the shift.  


“He’s different, so what? Why would he mind? You’re quite right.” Sherlock places the hat on his head, more so just propping it on top of his mound of dark curls so as not to stretch out the material. He turns to Mycroft solemnly. “Why would anyone mind?”  


Iris leans over to Mrs. Hudson who’s eyeing Sherlock in that ridiculous hat.  


“A photo of him in that would replace his deerstalker headshot in seconds.” Iris teases, Mrs. Hudson giggling. Mycroft, shocked at the insinuation, responds to Sherlock’s questioning.  


“I’m not lonely, Sherlock.” Mycroft nearly laughs. Sherlock simply takes a step or two closer, hat still perched on his head, and leans in towards his brother.  


“How would you know?” Sherlock walks away, removing the hat and setting it on the desk. Mycroft, seemingly appalled, straightens his tie and attempts to move on.  


“Yes. Back to work, if you don’t mind. Good morning.” Mycroft offers before heading out the door. Sherlock winks to Iris and Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, who chuckle under their breath.  


“Right, back to work.” Sherlock moves towards the wall covered in photographs, determination and focus clouding his face. Iris is about to head back downstairs, when Mrs. Hudson steps towards Sherlock. After watching him a moment, she speaks.  


“Sherlock... Talk to John.”  


Sherlock doesn’t look away from his work, only answering quietly.  


“I’ve tried talking to him. He made his position quite clear.”  


“What did he say?” Iris asks, leaning against the doorframe.  


“Fuck off.” Sherlock says emotionless.  


“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, turning and heading downstairs. Iris watches her go and then shift her gaze back to Sherlock.  


“I guess he just needs some space... I could try and reach out for you-”  


“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I have work to do.” Sherlock lifts one of the small maps up to reveal some more photographs underneath, an array of random faces looking back at him.  


“Alright then.” Iris turns to go.  


“I could use some help, if you’re interested.” Sherlock asks softly, eyes still fixated on the wall in front. Iris sighs.  


“I would, but um... Melinda’s service...” Iris trails off, Sherlock closing his eyes and hanging his head.  


“Yes, of course. Apologies.”  


“Maybe see if Molly’s around? I don’t know what she’s been up to, but...” Iris shrugs, “Who knows?”  


“Thanks for the idea.”  


Iris leaves Sherlock to his work, moving back downstairs to get dressed and ready for what will be a stressful and sad afternoon. Just inside her flat, Iris’ phone rings, Sam’s number popping up on the screen. Iris winces as she answers the phone, not even saying hello.  


“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you.”  


“Is it true? Is it actually true? It can’t be. He was dead, you saw him, dead!” The news of Sherlock’s return broke across most of the news that morning, so it’s not a big surprise that it made its way over to America just as fast.  


“Apparently not, because I just spent the morning listening to him play violin and bicker with his brother.” Iris sinks into the armchair and leans her head against the back of it.  


“Mycroft was there? Was he in on it too?” Sam seems beside himself in shock.  


“Yep, he, Molly, and some of Sherlock’s homeless network. All a rouse to fool Moriarty- who, by the way, is actually dead. Like shot himself in the head dead.”  


“What?! You can’t be serious.”  


“I wish I wasn’t. I’m still coming to terms with it myself. John won’t speak to Sherlock, Sherlock’s throwing himself into some project of Mycroft’s, and I’ve got to go meet with Susie.” Iris sighs and presses a hand to her eyes, trying to rub the tension away.  


“Are you okay?” Sam asks, calmer than when he first started the call.  


“Honestly? No. But each moment gets a bit easier. I just didn’t expect any of this... and now... I don’t know.” Iris pauses, Sam letting her breathe for a moment. “My brain just keeps vacillating between two years ago and now. Like upstairs felt so normal but also so, so strange, and with John not being there?” Iris shakes her head and sits up. “I can’t deal with it all right now, I just can’t.”  


“So deal with what you have to right now. Meeting with Susie. Are you dressed?”  


“No, I was about to go change.”  


“Well, put me on speaker and go change. One step at a time.”  


“Okay. One step at a time.” Iris rises from the chair, moving to her bedroom. “Wait, it’s early in New York, don’t you have work?” Iris punches the speaker button and tosses her phone on the end of her bed, moving to the closet.  


“In a couple hours, I’ve got time.” Sam responds. Iris opens the small door to the closet.  


“Did I mention I accidentally grabbed the same dress?” Iris asks, braving herself for the piece of clothing hanging on one of the few hangers she left behind.  


“Same?”  


“From when we buried Sherlock.” Iris pulls the dress out, running her hand over the dark velvet material.  


“Shit. That’s a freaky coincidence.”  


“The universe is rarely so lazy.” Iris idly reiterates the same phrase she’s heard Sherlock and Mycroft use time and time again.  


“What?” Sam asks.  


“Nothing.” Iris brushes it off. She quickly dresses and manages to get the zipper up the back successfully on her own, memories of John’s hands sliding it the other way flashing forward in her mind.  


“Iris? You still there?” Sam calls out, Iris sitting on the edge of the bed.  


“Yeah.” She responds quietly. The phantom feeling of dirt caked on her hand as she desperately tries to wipe it and the memory away on her thigh.  


“Just breathe, are you dressed?”  


“I need tights and shoes.” Iris responds absentmindedly, staring off towards the door. Her brain, relentless as ever now that she’s actually wearing the dress, batters her with image after image.  


“Get them on, then go outside; the fresh air will help.” Sam’s voice pulls her back somewhat, enough that she can rise and locate the only other pair of shoes she brought besides her short leather boots. Her tights rolled up in the toe, Iris unravels them and slips them on.  


Kitten heels and green pea coat on next, Iris grabs her purse and heads to the foyer, phone still in hand. After she locks her door, and idea hits Iris.  


“Hang on Sam, I’m going to set the phone down really quick, but I’ll be right back.”  


“Okay...” Sam responds, unsure but unable to do much other than go along with it.  


Iris sets the phone and her purse down on the small end table near the front door. Then, taking the stairs two at a time, Iris climbs up to find Sherlock in basically the same position she left him. He doesn’t turn his head.  


“Yes?” Sherlock asks, taping up a new photo on the wall. Iris’ lack of response pulls him from his work.  


“I just-” Iris takes a deep breath, having almost lost it climbing the stairs so fast. “Just checking.” Sherlock’s confused face makes Iris chuckle . “Sorry, this was silly of me, of course you’re still here. Sorry.”  


“It’s the same dress, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, already knowing the answer. Iris looks down and plays at some of the fabric in her hand.  


“Ever the smart one.” Iris jokes, trying to backpedal from, what now feels like, a very trivial idea.  


“Not dead. Still here.” Sherlock confirms, a short nod of his head. Iris mimics the gesture.  


“Yes, right. Thank you,” Iris nearly smacks her forehead, “I mean, good to know, I- you know what? I’m going to go, I’ll see you later.” Iris turns and nearly runs down the stairs before she can say anything else ridiculous.  


Back downstairs, Sam is still on the other end of the line.  


“You okay?” He asks as Iris opens the front door to stand on the curb.  


“A bit better, yes.”  


“Good. Now you’re dressed, outside, and ready to get in a cab.”  


“I was going to take the tube...” Iris realizes, unaware that she was that adverse to cabs right now. “But I think it’ll be alright. The memories are good, the cabs are fine-”  


“You’ve got this, Iris, I promise.” Sam’s reassurance comforts her greatly, her hand raised to hail the nearest cab. It pulls over and Iris gives him the address to an office in Lambeth, about fifteen minutes away. Taking Sam off speaker, Iris brings the phone back to her ear and lowers her voice so as to not annoy the cabbie.  


“I’m not going to know anyone there, I mean except her granddaughter... I’m a stranger, coming to pay my respects to someone I barely knew.”  


“Just go in, collect what she’s left, and you can leave. I bet she’s leaving you whatever paperwork she had on your necklace... Who knows, maybe she has a new lead.” Sam adds tentatively.  


“No, no more leads, Sam, we’ve talked about this.” Iris says firmly.  


“I know, I know... I’m just saying that’s probably what she’s left you, that’s all.”  


Iris pays for the ride and stands on the curb looking up at the impressive brick building.  


“Well, I’m here.”  


“You’ve got this. Just keep breathing, in and out, and you will be just fine. You can text or call me as soon as you’re out, okay?” Sam says encouragingly.  


“Okay... Thanks, Sam.” Iris says, genuinely meaning it. She pockets her phone and walks inside, looking for the building directory. After locating the right office, Iris heads for the elevator. As the doors open, Iris sees almost two dozen people chatting outside a large meeting room surrounded by massive glass walls. It seems quite casual, some drinking coffee or tea and chatting quietly amongst themselves. A huge spread of food lays out on a table against the hallway wall, soft piano music playing through speakers in the corner.  


The table in the meeting room has papers and a few boxes laid out, but they’re too far away for Iris to pinpoint just what they are. A young girl, a few years younger than Iris, with curly red hair stands at the table with an older gentleman, having him sign something as she hands him an envelope. Looking through the glass walls, the woman offers a small wave and walks out towards Iris.  


“Hi there, you must be Iris, right? Susie Alcott, thank you for coming.” The two shake hands, Iris offering a sad smile.  


“I’m so sorry to hear about Melinda, really. I mean, I didn’t know her that well, but she was so sweet and so helpful.”  


Susie smiles warmly.  


“That was Gran, always the sweetest.”  


“I don’t want to get in the way of family paying their respects, I appreciate you reaching out though.” Iris looks around at the others, curious at their coolness.  


“Don’t worry, Gran was never about the somber sadness of usual funeral services. It’s actually more of a distribution of some of Gran’s things to her beneficiaries. She had a semi-lengthy list of people, and as her will’s executor I thought it would be easiest to share it with everyone if they were all in one place. So you are more than welcome to stay and eat if you’d like, whatever you’re comfortable with.”  


“Thank you.” Iris exhales, glad to avoid the gloomy melancholy she first expected.  


“It’s funny, after her stroke, when she finally got back most of her mobility and was able to sit in her shop, she never stopped working on your jeweler search. She asked about you, but when I told her what happened, with that detective’s death?” Susie says as gently as she can, Iris unsure if she knows Sherlock’s actually still alive. “She understood that you needed to leave, but she never gave up hope. Of all the people here, she only requested that you show up in person; it was stipulated in your notice as beneficiary that the only way I could hand over what she wanted to give you was if you showed up physically here, in London.”  


That piece of information hits Iris harder than she expected.  


“Really? I...”  


Susie nods.  


“There’s a note attached with the items, not read by anyone, that will probably explain; here, follow me.” Susie motions Iris to trail behind, weaving through the smattering of people and into the conference room. Susie stops in front of a medium-sized cardboard box, taking the lid off and sliding it towards Iris.  


“This is all for me?” Iris asks, baffled at the mound of papers and notebooks. Sitting on top of it all is a small envelope, the logo of the antique store in the upper corner, Melinda’s handwriting on the front _‘Iris Moretti.’_

“Yes, her giant ledger is in there too, so be careful of the weight. I made photocopies of it since technically I still need it for the shop, but it’s all yours.”  


“I could take the photocopies, I shouldn’t take what you need for the store-”  


“Nope, this is what Gran wanted.” Susie smiles widely. “Also, I’d been trying for ages to get her to go digital, and now I can.” Susie laughs softly, the fond memory intertwined with the sadness of their present reality.  


Iris gently rifles through some of the papers, catching the edge of the large leather-bound ledger at the bottom. Scattered in are letters to Melinda, opened and folded back together, along with a bright yellow bag tucked away in the corner. Iris reaches for the drawstring, noting the weight as she picks it up. Opening the top slightly, Iris nearly gasps at the amount of necklaces, individually kept in small plastic baggies, compiled inside. A vast array of names and different colored metals, the one thing they all have in common is that they look exactly like hers.  


“There must be dozens in here, how...?” Iris looks up at Susie, who just shrugs.  


“Like I said, she never gave up hope. Some of those were sent in by friends of hers, from other shops or jeweler’s events we’d go to. I think there’s almost forty-five or fifty in there, last I saw; they’re all tagged and marked down somewhere in the ledger, just in case.”  


“I can’t believe it...” Iris cinches up the bag and places it back in the cardboard box. Shutting the lid on top, Iris runs her hand over the neat printing of her name on top of it. “Thank you.” Iris turns to Susie.  


“Of course, thank you for coming all the way out here. I would have happily shipped it, but Gran was specific that I was to make sure you showed up in person.” Susie shrugs and reaches for a small clipboard. “If you’ll just sign here saying that you’ve been made aware of your beneficiary status and collected whatever items were left for you.”  


Iris takes the outstretched pen and quickly signs her name on the various lines.  


“Great, you’re all set.” Susie smiles and sets the clipboard down. “My Gran was a very vibrant person, who loved a good puzzle and never took no for an answer. Thank you for giving her something that brought her excitement and intrigue. You have no idea how much that helped in her last two years. Really.” Susie begins to tear up, Iris reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder.  


“I’ve never met someone who believed as whole-heartedly in the possibility of actually figuring this out as much as she did. I knew it was the longest of long shots, but she made me feel like there might just be a chance.”  


Susie reaches up to wipe a stray tear away, determined to avoid crying when there was work to do. Iris reaches out a hand to shake before leaving, Susie accepting it but then pulling Iris into a hug. Startled, but feeling similar in the sentiment, Iris hugs her back.  


“If you’re ever around, the shop is still open, feel free to stop by. I also put my contact info on a card in the box, just in case.” Susie adds as she leads Iris out towards the hall. “Now why don’t you make yourself a plate of something from the table? I know it’s a bit awkward not knowing anyone here, but that doesn’t mean you should go hungry.” Iris chuckles at how much that sentiment echoes Mrs. Hudson’s usual ways, and she nods.  


“Sure, thank you.” Iris sets her box down on a nearby chair and picks up a paper plate. She takes a handful of cheese and some crackers, nabbing a few tasty looking chocolate biscuits, before taking the napkin in Susie’s outstretched hand to cover it.  


Placing the covered plate on top of her box, Iris pushes the nearby elevator button before gathering everything up in her arms.  


“Thank you, Susie, and again, my condolences to your family.”  


Susie nods appreciatively, waving over to another person standing nearby, leading them into the conference room as Iris hops on the elevator.  


Iris texts Sam in the cab ride back, feeling much calmer and almost at peace knowing how well that all went. She happily munches on the food from her plate, clearing it quickly and tucking the folded empty plate into her purse. Excited to see what’s inside, Iris can hardly get out of the cab fast enough once back at Baker Street. Balancing the box on her hip, Iris pulls out Mrs. Hudson’s spare key and opens the front door.  


Once in her flat, Iris clears off the counter to start laying out everything inside the box. Separating things into piles, Iris soon has the entire surface covered. There are letters from Melinda’s friends, with little sticky-notes added with reference to necklaces in the yellow bag. The ledger lands on the table with a thud, tabs added to pages relating to different necklace donations, similar numbering to help keep things organized. There’s even some research printed out of different jewelers and their markings, scribbles in Melinda’s, now recognizable, handwriting. Iris eventually counts all the necklaces in the yellow bag, a grand total of forty-eight individual necklaces, each with their own number in correlation to either a handwritten letter or tab of the leger.  


Finally, Iris picks up the last piece, the letter. Moving to sit in the armchair, Iris gently begins to unseal it. A smaller envelope falls in her lap, Iris choosing to read the handwritten note first. Leaning back in the chair, Iris unfolds the paper.  


_To the Dearest Iris Moretti,_

_  
I know you haven’t been back to London for some time now, and if you’re reading this I have passed. Please don’t be too sad, truly. I know Sherlock Holmes’ death is what caused you to leave, and I apologize for troubling you all the way back out here. But I had to. There are too many possible leads for you to ignore them, and while circumstances may have led you to give up, I wanted you to know that I never could. Maybe it was the mystery I wanted to solve, but I think there is genuinely an answer here. I’ve included in your things all the writings I have on your necklace and who the jeweler might possibly be. Please don’t give up hope. Your birth parents are out there, you just have to believe. I had hoped to find the answer before showing you any of this, but my health continues to decline and I refuse to let this die with me. Now you’re back in London, you have these leads, please, please don’t give up. Unanswered questions can leave you feeling doubtful and uncertain, and that’s no way to live. Life is too short and you have to do whatever you can to live it as full and vibrantly as possible. Find your answers, leave no stone unturned, and most of all, be happy._

_With all my love,_

_Melinda Alcott_

_P.S. I’ve included some funds to hopefully keep you afloat while you follow what you can. I don’t want lack of money to stop you from finding your answers. I hope you take it as a sign of my seriousness and my deepest belief that you will find your family. Good luck._

Iris looks off, letter still in hand, trying to process. When she left London, she left behind any hope or notion of ever picking back up this search. In burying Sherlock she buried any possibility of finding her birth parents, resigning herself to truly be an orphan forever. But the adamancy of this letter, the papers and notes sitting in the kitchen, it all starts to stir up memories and hope... Iris debates opening the smaller envelope, now that she knows it’s money, because this isn’t what the plan was. The plan was to come, collect whatever needed to be collected, and leave. Return back to the safety of New York, the familiarity of Sam, away from the grief and loss London holds for her.  


Deciding she may as well open it, Iris slides her finger under the flap as she pulls out a check. Iris’ jaw hits the floor.  


“No, that can’t be right.” Iris says aloud, jumping out of her seat and searching for the card with Susie’s number on it. Pulse racing, Iris dials the number and anxiously waits as it rings.  


“Hello, this is Susie Alcott.” Susie’s voice comes in through the line.  


“This can’t be right, Susie. She can’t have left me all this money.” Iris stares at the check in her hands. There’s a chuckle on the other end of the phone.  


“Iris? Is that you? I thought she might have left you something a bit more than expected, but really, it’s all yours.”  


“Thirty-five _thousand_ pounds?! That’s insane, I don’t need money like that, or any money at all, really-” Iris begins to spiral, aghast at the idea of this poor old woman leaving behind this sum of money to a foreigner she barely knew. Susie cuts her off.  


“Iris, really, please. Whatever she left you was hers to leave. You might think you’re a stranger but Gran never stopped talking about you. She couldn’t stand the thought of you never knowing where you came from, living your whole life thinking you were alone. She felt like she had an opportunity to answer the one question she never could for herself.”  


“What do you mean?” Iris asks.  


“My grandmother was an immigrant orphaned when she was just a baby. She never knew her real family and she said it was her single greatest regret in life, never knowing where she was from or who she was.”  


“She never mentioned that... I didn’t know.” Iris stares down at the check, eyes starting to blur with tears.  


“She hated talking about it. It always made her cry, so she avoided the subject as best she could. I think she saw herself in you, and had to do whatever she could to help you find your answers.”  


“The money, it’s still too much.” Iris sniffles, looking up towards the light to keep her tears from spilling over.  


“I won’t take it back, it’s yours. Gran made a note of that as well: she didn’t want any beneficiary to return whatever she divvied out. Donate it if you can’t stand it, but know she left it to you for a reason. Whatever reason that was, it was important to her, and she wanted you to have it. Truly.” Susie says cheerfully.  


Iris sets the check on the counter, moving to rub a hand over her face, sighing.  


“Well then... Thank you. I guess I have some thinking to do...” Iris trails off.  


“Like I said, stop by the shop in town if you’re around. You were an important person to my gran, and that makes you important to me, however much a stranger you may be. Keep in touch, and good luck.” Susie says with a smile as Iris says goodbye and hangs up.  


Unsure of what to do, and desperately needing some air, Iris pins the check onto the refrigerator with a magnetic clip and grabs her coat to head outside.  


The cold fall air hits Iris’ cheeks, grateful for the space to breath. None of this was going the way she thought it would, and her mind was in absolute turmoil.  


Pacing on the pavement out in front of Speedy’s, Iris tries to organize her thoughts. Mid-pace, Iris catches John crossing the street towards her. He seems somewhat uneasy, or unsure of what he’s doing, clenching his gloved hands and shifting his weight from side to side.  


“John? Hi there.” Iris stops in her pacing, offering a small wave. John nods his head.  


“Hi.” John responds shortly.  


“What are you doing here?” Iris asks.  


“I was-”  


A man in a baseball cap rams into John’s shoulder, knocking him a step or two closer to Iris. Turning over his shoulder, John is about to shout at the guy to tell him off for not watching where he’s going.  


“Excuse you,” he starts, when suddenly another man appears behind them both, grabbing John by the shoulders and stabbing him in the neck with a needle. Iris tries to reach out for him, when the man with the baseball cap returns and does the same to Iris. Eyes wide and trying to grasp at anything to get away, darkness pulls at her brain, knocking Iris unconscious.  


~.~

The first thing Iris feels as her consciousness starts to return is cold. Biting cold. A cold that makes her want to wrap her scarf more tightly around her neck. She has the impulse to move, but nothing happens. Eyes snapping open, Iris can’t make out much in the darkness. As her eyes adjust, there are tree branches and pieces of wood very close to her face. It’s all quite disorientating. Trying to reach up and move the branches aside, Iris struggles to feel any of her limbs. Her body is useless and seems completely disconnected from her. But her mind is awake. Frantically trying to move or shout or do _something,_ Iris fights as hard as she can. There’s a loud ringing in her ears.  


Slowly, over the span of a few minutes, Iris starts to get some feeling back in her face and neck. Able to turn her head, Iris tries to shake the feeling back into the rest of her body. With no success, Iris looks for John. She sees him lying right next to her, branches and wood surrounding him just as they do Iris. The ringing begins to subside, Iris able to hear the grunting and struggling of John trying to move as well. Iris tries to call out, to move her hand, something to reach him but her body fails her yet again.  


Outside of whatever giant mound of wood they seem to be stuck under, sounds start to pierce through the foggy haze in Iris’ mind. There’s chatter, like people surrounding them, and a faint drum? Iris closes her eyes to listen, desperate to figure out where she is.  


Next to her, John manages to call out a weak ‘help!’ but it’s barely loud enough for Iris to hear. A few droplets of something wet hit Iris’ face, her eyes snapping open. She tries to shout but nothing more than a whisper comes out.  


Suddenly, without warning, a massive ball of fire erupts around them, the wood above them completely engulfing in flames. Iris hears cheering as the heat intensifies around them. John manages to fight his way to roll on his side, mustering all his strength to shout.  


“Help!” He manages to get out fairly loudly. Iris tries the same, engaging her core (whether or not the muscles will respond) and shouting at the top of her lungs.  


“Help us!”  


A young girl screams somewhere beyond the fire, the cheering having subsided. The flames grow closer and closer to Iris’s face, the heat sweltering around them. There’s a loud crashing by their heads, with more people shouting.  


“John! John!” Sherlock calls out, along with a female voice Iris doesn’t recognize.  


“Help!” John and Iris scream, Iris realizing she has the feeling back in her shoulders and moving on down to her arms. She feels a hand grab at her wrist, John managing to cling as tightly as he can, as a pair of arms reach into the blaze to pull him out.  


It takes all his strength to hold on, but John does, and as Sherlock drags him from the pile he manages to pull Iris out as well. Grateful for the relief of the cold air and to be out of immediate danger, Iris stops shouting for help and begins to cough. Laying on her back, Iris stares up at the night sky trying to catch her breath.  


She hears Sherlock calling out to John to see if he’s breathing, before Sherlock appears in Iris’ line of sight, just above her head.  


“Iris, are you alright?” Alarm written across his whole face, Sherlock reaches out and puts a hand on Iris’ head. “Iris, just breath, you’re okay now.”  


Sherlock disappears briefly, Iris turning her head to see him over John as well. A beautiful blonde woman in a bright red coat kneels at John’s shoulder, his hand enveloped in both of hers. She places one of her hands on John’s chest, rubbing and trying to soothe him as he coughs. This must be Mary, she’s cute and seems well invested in John’s safety, which is always a good sign with the trouble he and Sherlock manage to get them all into.  


Out of breath from whatever frenzy it was that brought him here so quickly, Sherlock hangs his head in relief. The crowd of onlookers move back as he rises to call Emergency Services.  


Soon there are police lights and two ambulances, along with officers who disperse the crowd from whatever event they were throwing. Apparently they had no idea someone had placed John and Iris in that bonfire, so when Greg Lestrade arrives there are no immediate arrests. Firefighters put the bonfire out before it can cause any more problems, clouds of white smoke disappearing into tendrils up in the night sky.  


Sherlock helps Iris sit up as paramedics rush over with oxygen masks and their kits. It’s only then does she realize John still has hold of her wrist, and she somewhat manages to turn to look his way. Mary has him propped up in a sitting position against her as he still coughs.  


“Thank... you.” Iris manages to cough out, John releasing her arm with a nod. If he hadn’t grabbed hold of her, they might not have known she was in there until it was too late. The paramedic holds out the oxygen mask to Iris, and with Sherlock’s help they place it against her nose and mouth. Grateful for the clean, cool air, Iris closes her eyes and leans against Sherlock. Cough starting to subside, Iris tries taking large, deep breaths.  


The paramedics check their vitals and offer them a ride to the hospital if they’d like. John shakes his head, saying he’s fine and that he just wants to go home. Lestrade has an officer arrange his and Mary’s ride back, and they lead him away. Once gone, Greg kneels down in front of Iris, who’s still propped up next to Sherlock, clutching onto his coat.  


“I leave you alone for what, two days?” Greg’s attempt at a joke fails to mask his sincere concern over Iris’ current state.  


Iris, slowly reaching up for the mask Sherlock’s holding to her face, tries to move it aside to talk.  


“Is this really... anything new though? Just,” Iris coughs, “another Tuesday when Sherlock Holmes is in town.” She huffs out a laugh, before starting to cough again. Sherlock, silent but worried, holds the mask back to her face, Iris holding onto his arm tightly.  


“Let’s get you over to hospital, get you checked out.” Lestrade says, Iris shaking her head.  


“I’m fine, really, just need to,” Iris pauses to try and take a deep breath, “get the feeling back in my feet... and we’re good to go.” Iris tries to wiggle her toes in her shoes, noticing for the first time how singed and torn up her beautiful green pea coat is, her tights ripped and tattered, kitten heels black with soot. “Oh no...” Iris says sadly, leaning forward to slowly reach down for a frayed edge.  


“I don’t like the look of you right now, are you saying you honestly can’t feel your feet?” Lestrade asks. Iris shakes her head.  


“I mean not right _now,_ but-” Iris coughs in this new position, bracing herself against Sherlock.  


“Nope, come on, we’re going. Medic!” Lestrade rises to bark after one of the paramedics, a stretcher next to Iris moments later.  


They strap the oxygen mask around the back of her head, loading the small tank behind her as they move across the park towards the ambulance. Sherlock and Greg follow closely. They watch as the paramedics load Iris into the back of the ambulance. Iris tries to control her breathing, but the thought of going to the hospital by herself in a country she’s never had to before starts to affect her anxiety.  


“Wait,” she starts, muffled by the mask. She pushes it aside and looks between Sherlock and Greg. “Please, I don’t want to go by-” Iris begins to admit sheepishly. Sherlock, before she can even finish the thought, makes his way aboard and sits out of the medics’ way right next to her. He doesn’t say anything, worry still painted across his face. He manages a smile as he reaches out a hand to Iris’ arm.  


“And I’ll lead the way in my car, lights and sirens on.” Greg calls with a reassuring wave as the medics close the doors and begin to prepare for the trip. Hooking Iris up to various drips and lines, the nice young woman medic pulls out her clipboard.  


“Alright, let’s get this file started for you, and we’ll be at hospital before you know it. What is your full name?”  


“Iris Moretti.” Iris holds the mask aside to answer, placing it back while the woman writes down her answers.  


“Are you on any medications?”  


Iris closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to clear out the smoke as best she can.  


“Zoloft and Xanax.” She breaths out.  


“Are they both prescribed?”  


Iris nods, trying to keep her breathing steady to avoid coughing.  


“Zoloft on a regular basis for major depressive and panic disorders, Xanax for more immediate anxiety attacks...” Iris manages a shaky exhale that doesn’t result in coughing, before adding, “Last Xanax I had was about two days ago, so it should be out of my system by now.”  


Iris manages a look over to Sherlock, hoping to avoid a similar look of pity she usually gets from Sam when she discusses her meds. Sherlock focuses on the windows out the back of the ambulance instead. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling is a complete mystery to Iris at the moment. He does keeps his hand on her arm, trying at least to comfort as best he can.  


The doctors draw blood once they settle Iris into an exam room, Sherlock sitting in the corner in a chair, hand perched pensively against his cheek. The nurses flit in and out checking different monitors and adjusting her oxygen, switching the full mask to just the nasal canula. The last nurse closes the door after handing Iris a few throat lozenges to help soothe her throat. With a soft click of the handle, the tiny room falls silent.  


“Hey, Mr. Lost in Thought. You okay?” Iris croaks out, pulling Sherlock from his far off gaze.  


“I should be asking you that. I’m fine.” Sherlock responds, not at all convincing Iris.  


“In the time it’s taken to get here I can feel all my fingers and toes, so I honestly think I’m all right. I feel like that’s not entirely what’s got you so quiet though. I noticed about half a dozen easy deductions you could have made about both nurses, and you missed every single one.” Iris teases, Sherlock still pensive.  


“I’m trying to piece together what happened, how you both ended up in that bonfire...”  


Before they can get further into the conversation the first doctor returns, an older man with gray hair and little round glasses. He carries a file in his hand, and clicks the end of his pen three times before pocketing it in his lab coat.  


“Ms. Moretti? The rush on your blood sample came back with no clear indications of whatever the drug was, so we are sending it off to get a closer look by one of our pathologists. But from the neurological tests we administered when you first arrived, it seems whatever paralytic it was has worn off. I’d suggest still taking it easy for the next few days, and come back if anything gets worse. Any questions?” He asks with a brief adjustment of his glasses.  


“Does it seem like whatever the drug was had any impact on my antidepressants?” Iris asks, the doctor looking back down to her chart.  


“Ah, yes, I did see the levels you’re at are a bit high, it could be the paralytic-”  


“No, that’s just my prescription.” Iris tries to laugh it off, realizing that might not be the best move.  


“I see, well then your levels don’t seem to be affected by the paralytic, but do speak to your psychiatrist if you notice any shift in symptoms. And, if possible, avoid the alprazolam just until things level out a bit more, unless it’s a significant panic attack you can’t avoid.”  


“Believe me, I tried to avoid that Xanax as best as I can.” Iris’ smile feels strange on her face, twiddling with the paper from her cough drop.  


“Good, well with that you are good to go, I’m just going to disconnect these fluids we have tacked onto you.” The doctor moves to Iris’ side and swiftly removes the butterfly needle and tape on the back of Iris’ hand. “We will have someone come by with a wheelchair to get you out of the building, do you have a ride?”  


Sherlock rises from his seat, buttoning the last few buttons on his Belstaff.  


“Yes, we have a car waiting out front.”  


“Wonderful, have a good night and stay healthy.” The man says with a broad grin, taking the file with him out the door. A young man in scrubs arrives with a wheelchair almost immediately after, Iris glad to be able to get out the bed on her own.  


Greg Lestrade waits anxiously out front, leaning on the hood of his new car. He jumps up to open the backdoor when he sees them approaching, Sherlock moving to the passenger’s side as Iris climbs in.  


Settled in the warm backseat Iris slowly drifts in and out of sleep, trying to listen to Greg and Sherlock talk.  


“Who do you think did this, Sherlock? I mean burning them alive? Who-”  


“I don’t know.” Sherlock responds curtly, looking out the window. “I don’t know... All I have is the skip code someone sent Mary, warning that something would happen to John...” Sherlock lowers his voice, hoping Iris is asleep. “It didn’t even mention Iris, I had no idea she was in there until I started to pull John out and he had his hand clutched onto her arm.”  


“Jesus Christ.” Greg exhales, turning the corner. “Well I’ll ask around and see if I can find anything-”  


“You won’t,” Sherlock cuts him off before realizing he shouldn’t have, “but thank you.” He adds. “I don’t like thinking what might have happened if John hadn’t had her arm-”  


“I’m fine, Sherlock,” Iris says quietly from the backseat, Sherlock’s head turning quickly.  


“I thought you were asleep.”  


Iris shrugs and looks out the window at the night sky blanketing the buildings around them. Sherlock falls silent, Greg weaving through traffic towards Baker Street.  


Sherlock holds the door for Iris back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson flitting about in her kitchen even given the late hour. She pops her head out as soon as she hears them.  


“Oh, dear, are you alright?”  


“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I’m fine, really. Why are you still up? You should be asleep.”  


“No, no, I had to make sure you were alright, here, let’s get you downstairs.”  


Before Iris can protest or turn to talk to Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson has her at her door and moving inside. She manages a look back to catch Sherlock about to say something, but he stops himself before climbing the stairs to his flat.  


After much fussing, Mrs. Hudson finally has Iris settled in bed with a promise to call if she needs anything. Mrs. Hudson takes her clothes from the evening, fairly singed and probably unsalvageable, upstairs to soak and attempt to fix. Exhaustion pulls Iris asleep before she can put any more thought into it.  


The next morning Iris wakes up coughing, reaching for the glass of water left out. Cool water soothing her throat, she rises from bed and goes to brush her teeth. Her reflection in the mirror shocks her, as Iris gently pokes at the handful of scratches on her cheekbone, dried with blood from last night. The edges of her face are lined with soot, Mrs. Hudson’s warm washcloth the night before must have missed. Tilting her chin up, Iris finds more scratches and a small bruise on her jaw.  


Warming the water in the sink and reaching for a washcloth, Iris gently scrubs away as much of the ash as she can. She finds even her hands have smaller cuts and scrapes from the branches. Once Iris has everything clean and dry she goes for the first aid kit to find some ointment to, hopefully, help with any bacteria or scarring. Throat still sore, and battered more than she realized, Iris takes a few minutes to work on some breathing exercises on the couch before seeking out Sherlock. Something seems off with him, and Iris dislikes how she left things the night before.  


Before she can get halfway up the stairs, the doorbell rings. Unsure if Mrs. Hudson is home or awake, Iris turns back to answer it. An older couple stands on the front steps, a man and woman. The woman has a lovely blouse and black coat on with a beautiful brooch attached, and the collar slightly upturned, just like someone else Iris knows... Her hair coiffed up neatly and a warm smile on her face, she tilts her head at the sight of Iris.  


“Good morning!” She offers cheerfully, Iris nodding a hello. “We’re here to see Sherlock.” She announces, walking right past Iris into the foyer. The gentleman next to her, cozy jumper and hat on, quietly shuffles in behind her, removing his hat with a nod. Iris closes the door to the cold and follows them.  


“I’m sorry, do you have an appointment? Usually,” Iris pauses, realizing she doesn’t know what ‘usually’ means anymore, with how long it’s been.  


“Oh, my dear, we don’t need an appointment. Violet Holmes.” She responds with a small smile, offering her hand for a firm shake. She exudes warmth, much like Mrs. Hudson, but in a different, more reserved way. Her eyes bear down on Iris with a sharpness that is Holmes by definition.  


The gentleman next to her extends his hand as well. Almost a spitting image of Sherlock, mostly in the nose and cheekbones, though Iris can now see Mycroft shares his father’s eyes and thin mouth.  


“Carlton Holmes.”  


“Sherlock’s parents! I should have known, he and Mycroft are almost carbon copies of you, sir.” Iris responds, baffled. The string of events that have occurred in only the past four or five days astounds Iris. “I’m Iris Moretti,” she adds quickly, realizing there was a slightly awkward pause where they were waiting on her.  


“Iris, what a beautiful name,” Violet says tenderly. Clearing her throat, Violet turns and confidently climbs the stairs, Carlton trailing behind. Iris follows.  


“I’m not sure if Sherlock’s in, actually.”  


“He knows we’re in town, he’ll be here.” Violet says over her shoulder, not even stopping to knock as she opens the front door to Sherlock’s flat. Carlton looks around before settling on the couch with a sigh. Violet begins to investigate the living room, taking in the desk and bookshelves. Iris listens for some sign of Sherlock.  


“I honestly don’t think he’s home, but he’s working on a case so I assume he’ll be back soon.” Iris stands in the doorway, unsure of what to do. “I guess I will leave you then, don’t want to intrude on family business.” Iris turns to go, 

Violet investigating some papers on the desk.  


“Were you really Sherlock’s sweetheart?” Violet asks, the neutral tone in her voice stopping Iris.  


“I’m sorry?”  


“In the papers, they said you were Sherlock’s sweetheart, I just wondered if it was true.” Violet offers a smile, a mother clearly interested in her son’s affairs, Iris blushing at even the thought.  


“Oh, no, definitely not. I’m just their neighbor, or I mean I was their neighbor. And their friend, I mean I helped on some cases, nothing-” Iris stumbles over her words, ever so grateful to hear footsteps and Sherlock’s voice behind her.  


“Mummy?” Sherlock asks, incredulous at the sight. She opens her arms and envelopes him in a tight hug, Iris grateful for the reprieve.  


“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks, having untangled himself from her embrace, turning to his father, still on the couch. They nod as Violet fixes a curl on Sherlock’s head.  


“You knew we were in town, aren’t we allowed to check in on our son every now and then?” Violet asks, moving to sit on the couch next to her husband. Sherlock turns to Iris.  


“I see you’ve met my parents. Parents, Iris, yes, yes, glad that’s out of the way.” Sherlock blows through the half-hearted ‘introduction,’ reaching for some papers on his desk, choosing to dive into his work.  


“I... I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Iris starts to go.  


“Oh nonsense, please stay, maybe you can help Sherlock deduce what happened to his father’s lottery ticket. It always happens, and Sherlock never seems to know where it goes.” Violet’s a tad pushy, but with sons like Sherlock and Mycroft, Iris imagines that they are a handful to keep up with. Sherlock, seemingly unperturbed by the idea, waves Iris in as he reorders the papers in his hands and looks for some photographs.  


Iris moves into the living room, perching on the edge of John’s old chair, while Violet Holmes goes into a fairly long-winded story of how her husband constantly loses things.  


“‘It wasn’t where I’d put it at all, silly woman!’” She mimics Carlton’s voice, Sherlock still immersed in his work. “Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, ‘Have you checked down the back of the sofa?’ He’s always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren’t you, dear?”  


“Afraid so,” Carlton replies with a grin.  


“Oh, keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses!” The woman continues. “Blooming things. I said, ‘Why don’t you get a chain, wear ‘em round your neck?’ And he says, ‘What? Like Larry Grayson?’”  


“Oh, I love ‘Shut That Door!’” Iris laughs, recalling the image of the host fondly.  


“So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?” Sherlock huffs out, clearly annoyed but choosing to let them continue. He does decide to take a few thumbtacks off the desk, the photographs in his hand, and move to his wall of papers above the couch. Without warning, Sherlock fully steps onto the coffee table and then in between both of his parents on the sofa, tacking the photos up while they talk. This doesn’t seem to faze Violet or Carlton, who are seemingly accustomed to their son’s antics.  


“Well yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see St. Paul’s, the Tower, but they weren’t letting anyone into Parliament. Some big debate going on.”  


The door suddenly opens to reveal John, startling Iris with a jump. Sherlock turns, shocked to see him as well.  


“John.” Sherlock says, surprised. John notices the couple sitting on the couch.  


“Sorry, you’re busy.”  


“No, no, they were just leaving.” Sherlock starts, jumping off the couch and lifting his parents up by the elbows, nearly pushing them out the door.  


“Oh, were we?” Sherlock’s mother asks, him unrelenting in his path to the door.  


“No, if you’ve got a case-” John starts, Sherlock cutting him off.  


"No, not a case, no, no.” Sherlock has them both around the sofa, Iris staying where she is to avoid being thrown out accidentally.  


“Alright, well, we’re here till Saturday, remember.” She calls out.  


“Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out.” Sherlock says adamantly. Iris and John make eye contact across the room, Iris shrugging in just as much confusion as John.  


“Yes, well, give us a ring.” Her motherly nagging continues as Sherlock has his father by the elbow and almost pushes him out as well.  


“Very nice, yes, good. Get out.” Sherlock says shutting the door on them, when the heeled boot of his mother steps out and stops the door, hard. Sherlock opens the door to see what happened, his mother leaning back in with a loud whisper.  


“I can’t tell you how glad we are, Sherlock. All that time, people thinking the worst of you. We’re just so pleased it’s all over.”  


“Ring up more often, won’t you? She worries.” Sherlock’s father adds quietly.  


“Promise.” Violet says, demanding her answer with the tone of her voice.  


Sherlock turns over his shoulder to John, then back to his parents. “Promise.” He caves, then promptly shuts the door behind him. John wanders over towards the desk, Iris still perched on the edge of the armchair. Sherlock, back to the door, awkwardly trying to think of what to say.  


“Sorry about that.” Sherlock offers.  


“No, it’s fine.” John responds politely. “Clients?”  


“Just my parents.” Sherlock corrects, John’s eyes going wide.  


“ _Your_ parents?” John asks, Sherlock moving towards his chair.  


“In town for a few days.”  


“Your parents?” John repeats, trying to wrap his head around the idea.  


“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of _Les Mis._ Tried to talk me into doing it.” Sherlock complains, standing at the other end of the desk. The politeness between these two only amplifies the awkwardness between them all.  


“Those were your parents?” John asks, moving towards the window to look down at the street, Iris figuring they were climbing into a cab right about now.  


“Yes.” Sherlock replies.  


“Well.” John chuckles. “That is not what I...” he trails off.  


“What?” Sherlock asks, curious what John thinks of his parents.  


“I mean, they’re just so...” John tries to find the word, Sherlock cocking his head.  


“Ordinary.” Iris finishes, John nodding in agreeance.  


“Yes... Ordinary.”  


“It’s a cross I have to bear.” Sherlock says in what Iris hopes in mock seriousness. John chuckles and moves away from the window. Iris notices the scrapes on John’s face, similar to her own. The smile fades as he looks to Sherlock.  


“Did they know, too?” He asks simply.  


“Hmm?” Sherlock turns away, though he clearly heard John.  


“That you’ve spent the last two years playing hide and seek?” John furthers, Sherlock reaching down to pick at some invisible speck on the desk. Quietly, Sherlock responds.  


“Maybe.”  


“Ah, so _that’s_ why they weren’t at the funeral!” John exclaims in realization. Sherlock straightens up, trying to illustrate his sincerity with his voice.  


“Sorry, sorry again!” Sherlock insists before pausing. “Sorry,” he adds much quieter. John just stares at him, before turning to look at Iris. She shrugs, again, unsure of how to mediate between these two anymore.  


“So you’ve shaved it off, then?” Sherlock asks, Iris realizes that the mustache has been cleanly erased from John’s face. It seems Sherlock’s words, and deduction that Mary didn’t like it either, did make an impact.  


“Yeah. Wasn’t working for me.” John replies, moving towards the fireplace and away from this conversation.  


“I’m glad.” Sherlock says truthfully.  


“You didn’t like it?” John asks, turning back to look at him.  


“No, I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”  


Iris snorts with a laugh. John looks towards his old armchair and sits, Iris still perched on the arm.  


“That’s not a sentence you hear every day.” He says.  


“I’ve heard it twice in the last few days.” Iris offers teasingly, Sherlock smirking. John sets his gloves on the end table and sighs.  


“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks after a moment.  


“Yeah, not bad. Bit smoked.” John offers, Iris coughing a bit to clear her throat.  


“Right.” Sherlock says, looking between the two of them.  


“Last night, who did that?” John asks, the real reason he must have shown up today. “And why did they target the two of us?” John motions with his hand between himself and Iris.  


“Technically it was just you, I wasn’t mentioned in the initial message, apparently.” Iris adds, looking to Sherlock.  


“I don’t know.” Sherlock chews on his bottom lip, looking off.  


“Is it someone trying to get to you through us?” John offers.  


“Like with Moriarty?” Iris asks.  


“Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?” John furthers, dissatisfied with Sherlock’s first response.  


“I don’t know. I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous.” Sherlock turns towards his board of papers and photos tacked to the wall, thinking aloud as he moves. “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That’s what’s strange...”  


“Give his life?” John asks.  


“According to Mycroft.” Iris explains.  


“There’s an underground network planning an attack on London, that’s all we know...” Sherlock pauses, studying his wall. “These are my rats.” He holds his hands up to explain.  


“Rats?’ Iris asks, rising to join Sherlock by the coffee table. John remains in his seat.  


“My markers, agents, low-lives. People who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something’s up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally but the sixth...” Sherlock points towards a photo of a middle-aged man in a suit, maybe a politician? In the background is Big Ben, so maybe a member of Parliament?  


“I know him, don’t I?” John asks, peering closer from his spot across the room.  


“Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm. Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the Establishment.” Sherlock explains. Iris leans in to see the other photos of seemingly unconnected people with large X’s over their faces, Moran the only one without it. “He’s been working for North Korea since 1996.”  


“What?” Iris asks, lifting one of the many maps to reveal a few more photos of Moran in different locations throughout the city.  


“He’s the big rat, rat number one. He’s just done something very suspicious indeed...” Sherlock moves to his laptop, John rising to watch a security video pulled up on the screen. Iris leans in to see an empty train pull through the Westminster station and leave, seemingly like normal. But as the clip continues, Lord Moran appears and steps onto one of the cars and takes off. As the train returns into the next station at St. James’s Park, Moran is gone. Disappeared into thin air. No stops in between the two stations, no feasible way for him to have gotten off mid-ride. And yet the man is gone.  


“Yeah, that’s odd.” John mutters to himself.  


“You’re sure there’s nowhere he could have gotten off?” Iris asks over her shoulder to Sherlock standing behind them. He shakes his head.  


“Not according to the maps... There’s something, something... _Something_ I’m missing.” Sherlock mutters, turning away to stare back at his wall. “Something staring me in the face.”  


“Any idea who they are, this underground network?” John asks, sitting in one of the desk chairs. “Intelligence must have a list of the most obvious ones.”  


“Our rat’s just come out of his den.” Sherlock murmurs, his phone in hand.  


“Al Qaeda?” Iris offers, not quite hearing Sherlock.  


“The IRA have been getting restless again, maybe they’re going to make-” John adds, Sherlock swiftly cutting off their conversation.  


“Yes, yes, yes, yes! I’ve been an idiot, a blind idiot!” Sherlock shouts.  


“What?” John asks, turning in his chair to watch Sherlock pace excitedly.  


“Oh, that’s good. That could be brilliant!”  


“What are you on about?” John asks again, curiosity outweighing his annoyance.  


“Mycroft’s intelligence is not nebulous at all, it’s specific, incredibly specific.” Sherlock continues, both John and Iris swiftly out of the loop.  


“What do you mean?” John asks sternly, trying to get Sherlock to stop moving.  


“It’s not an underground network, John, it’s an Underground network!”  


“This is ‘the face’ all over again, isn’t it?” Iris asks John, rolling her eyes as she too settles in one of the desk chairs. 

“What do you _mean_ Sherlock? You’ve just said the same word twice.”  


“Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can’t see it even when it’s staring you in the face.” Sherlock moves to the laptop, replaying the same video from before. “Look, seven carriages leave Westminster, and only six carriages arrive at St. James’s Park.”  


Iris counts the cars as the video plays, realizing Sherlock’s right. John stares at the screen.  


“Ah, but that’s... I mean, it’s impossible.” John plays back the video again.  


“Moran didn’t disappear. The entire Tube compartment did. The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage.” Sherlock explains.  


“Detached it where? I thought there weren’t any stations between Westminster and St. James’s Park?” Iris asks.  


“Not on the maps, but once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth. That carriage vanished, so it must be somewhere.” Sherlock insists.  


“But why, though? Why detach it in the first place?” John asks.  


“It vanishes between St. James’s Park and Westminster.” Sherlock begins to think aloud, pacing up and down the living room, laying out all the facts they know. “Lord Moran vanishes. You two are kidnapped and nearly burnt to death at a fireworks party...” Sherlock stops mid-step and turns to face them at the desk. “What’s the date, today’s date?”  


“November 5th-” Iris responds instinctually, her brain easily providing the date. Then it hits her, a poem from elementary school.  


“My God...” John realizes at the same time.  


“Lord Moran, he’s a Peer of the Realm. Normally he’d sit in the House. Tonight there’s an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill.” Sherlock pieces together, making his way closer to the photo of Lord Moran on the wall. “But he won’t be there, not tonight. Not the 5th of November.” Sherlock turns with a grin, having worked it out.  


“‘Remember, remember...’” John trails off.  


“‘Gunpowder, treason and plot.’” Iris adds. “So there’s going to be a terrorist attack tonight, we know who’s doing it, but we still don’t know where he, or that train car, went.”  


“I have an idea.” Sherlock says, grabbing his laptop and moving towards the kitchen. “Gather up all the books and maps you can find with anything relating to these two stations.”  


They scramble to collect what they can, spending the next few hours combing through underground stations and lines since they were first built. When they are unable to make heads or tails of where a large train car could go, Sherlock decides to call someone for a video chat on the computer. As Iris sits at the table, arms full of maps, she looks up to see a young, heavyset man wearing the same knit hat with the bobbles Sherlock and Mycroft played ‘deductions’ with. This must have been the client who left it behind, and he seems to know a _lot_ about trains. Sherlock catches Howard up to speed as they try to figure out where that missing carriage went.  


“There’s nothing down there, Mr. Holmes, I told you. No sidings, no ghost stations.”  
Sherlock moves around the table opening maps and turning them in different directions to try and read them better.  


“There has to be, check again.” He demands, John paging through a book on old stations built in the 20th century.  


“This whole area is a big mess of old and new stuff.” John explains, picking up a smaller map to compare. “Charing Cross is made up of bits of older stations, like Trafalgar Square, Strand...” He trails off.  


“No, it’s none of those, we’ve accounted for those.” Sherlock says, eyes glued to a map. Iris picks up a large folded map and narrows down the area they’re searching.  


“St. Margaret Street, Bridge Street, Sumatra Road, Parliament Street-” Iris lists, Howard cutting her off.  


“Hang on, hang on! Sumatra Road, you mentioned Sumatra Road? There is something, I knew it rang a bell!” Howard shouts, disappearing from the screen for a moment before returning with a book of his own. “Yes, there was a station down there.”  


“Well, why isn’t it on the maps?” John asks, trying to find Sumatra Road on the maps in front of him.  


“Because it was closed before it ever opened. They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes so they never built the station on the surface.” Howard holds up an old book to the camera, pointing to Sumatra Road. Iris looks between that and the map in her hands, tensing at her realization.  


“Sherlock? That’s right underneath-”  


“The Palace of Westminster.” Sherlock finishes, the gravity of what they’ve discovered hitting him.  


“So what’s down there, a bomb?” John asks, wondering just what Lord Moran has planned. Before anyone can respond, Sherlock heads straight for the door, grabbing his coat on the way out. John and Iris jump to their feet, Iris thanking Howard before promptly shutting the laptop lid.  


Realizing her green coat is probably beyond repair, Iris manages to grab a slightly heavier knit sweater and her scarf from her flat before Sherlock has hailed a cab on the curb. Anxiously, they ride the short ten minutes towards Westminster Station, Iris noting the iconic and recognizable sight of Big Ben and England’s Parliament. The early evening sky cloaks them into darkness as they reach the Westminster Station entry.  


Being a fairly tourist-heavy spot, Iris isn’t surprised to see the throngs of people going up and down the stairs to the Tube. Grateful to have also grabbed her shoulder bag earlier, Iris pulls out her Oyster card and makes her way through the turnstile gates with Sherlock and John. They make their way down different tunnels and corridors, all lined with bright ads for different products.  


“So it’s a bomb, then? The Tube carriage is carrying a bomb?” John asks, finally breaking the anxious silence they’ve been in since leaving Baker Street.  


“Must be.” Sherlock responds, eyes flitting around to make their next move, and also counting all the passersby.  


“Right.” John says, reaching for his phone.  


“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks.  


“I’m calling the police.” John explains, like that’s the normal thing to do here, right?  


“What? No!” Sherlock exclaims, taking them down another corridor.  


“Sherlock, this isn’t a game, they need to evacuate Parliament.” Iris adds in a hushed whisper, hoping no one around them hears.  


“They’ll get in the way, they always do. This is cleaner, more efficient.” Sherlock laments as he pulls a small crowbar out of his coat.  


“Do you just carry a crowbar around in your coat, Sherlock? That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?” Iris asks, shielding him from any onlookers as Sherlock jimmies a locked iron door open.  


“And illegal.” John adds, looking over his shoulder.  


“A bit.” Sherlock huffs, slipping in the door and closing it behind John and Iris.  


They wind their way down a dimly lit staircase, curving around in the dank darkness. Sherlock pulls out a flashlight, handing over one to John and Iris, illuminating their path somewhat.  


Down another corridor, Iris and John follow Sherlock. Cold creeps in and Iris wraps an arm around herself as she shines her flashlight on the steps in front of her. John pulls out his cell phone, Iris seeing that he’s completely lost service.  


“What are you doing?” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, John sighing as he pockets his phone and continues on.  


“Coming.” He calls.  


“I hope you know where you’re going Sherlock, because I sure don’t.” Iris says as Sherlock leads them down another strange corridor, massive metal tubes and cylinders echoing each of their footsteps as they travel farther down into the dark. Steep stairs take them down what must be a maintenance shaft of sorts. The metal railings are cool in Iris’ hands as she scolds herself for not grabbing gloves earlier.  


Finally, after what feels like forever, they make it to a shadowy, run-down platform.  


“This must be Sumatra Road...” Iris whispers, shining her light on the dilapidated tiles and dusty floors. Sherlock immediately moves to the end of the platform, shining his flashlight down each side of the empty track. No train car in sight.  


“I don’t understand.” Sherlock says.  


“Well, that’s a first.” John huffs.  


“There’s nowhere else it could be.” Sherlock says, disappearing into his mind palace as he tries to work out where the car is. With his hands to his temples and eyes shut tight, Iris and John wait patiently in hopes of some answer. Suddenly his eyes fly open as he gasps, “Oh!” before taking off at a sprint towards the far end of the platform. John and Iris rush to keep up.  


“What? Where is it, Sherlock?” Iris calls, as Sherlock hops down onto the track below.  


“Hang on. Sherlock?” John asks, standing on the edge of the platform, Iris behind him.  


“What?” Sherlock snaps, annoyed they’ve stopped.  


“That’s... Isn’t it live?” John questions, eyeing the track beneath them.  


“Perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rails.” Sherlock explains plainly as he turns and walks into the tunnel.  


“Of course, yeah, just avoid the rails.” Iris says sarcastically when John looks at her. With a mutual shrug, they hop down and continue following Sherlock. “I’m just glad it’s not the rat-infested rails of NYC.”  


“Great image.” John lands with a huff.  


“This way.” Sherlock calls out from up ahead.  


“Are you sure?” John asks, Iris shining her flashlight to find the best path between the live rails she hopes to avoid.  


“Sure,” is all Sherlock offers.  


The tunnel winds around, Iris realizing this may not have been the smartest move coming all the way down here with no backup. She should have texted Lestrade when they were in the cab, but now it’s too late.  


Sherlock leads on one side of the rail, John close behind on the other side, and Iris trailing further behind him. Thankfully there are some maintenance lights on the side of the tunnel helping to illuminate their path.  


“Oh, look at that.” John says, motioning with his light up ahead. Iris can just make out the missing train car. Sherlock pauses as he looks up, moving his own flashlight even higher.  


“Look.” The three turn their heads up and see a smattering of strange-looking devices strapped to the wall, all the way up a long chasm above them. There must be a dozen or so scattered around, Iris noticing the blinking red lights on each of them.  


“Demolition charges.” John guesses. They shift their gaze to the red train car ahead of them. Exhaling loudly, John steadies himself as they move closer.  


Once at the door, Iris and John look around with their flashlights underneath and on the sides, while Sherlock inspects the handle. With light from Iris and John, Sherlock carefully opens the car door, slowly swinging it open. Sherlock enters first, John offering Iris a hand up as they climb into the darkened car.  


Bright green poles and patterned blue upholstery seem normal, like any other Underground train Iris has ever taken. But the lack of the fluorescent lights and the fact that they’re the only three onboard raises the hair on the back of Iris’ neck. They silently move through the car, not quite sure what they’re looking for, when John speaks.  


“It’s empty. There’s nothing.” John checks out the window of the door on the opposite side, unable to find anything.  


“Isn’t there?” Sherlock says lowly, eyeing some wire on the side of the wall. Iris shines her light as he follows the wire down into one of the seats, carefully lifting up the cushion. Goosebumps shiver down Iris’ spine as she stares down at the seat.  


“This is the bomb.” She says wide-eyed.  


“What?” John asks in disbelief.  


Underneath the geometrically patterned upholstery sits four sticks of what must be an explosive, connected with red and black wires and brightly lit tubes of liquid.  


“It’s not carrying explosives. The whole compartment is the bomb.” Sherlock explains, moving to lift more of the seat cushions, each with its own collection of explosives underneath. Iris and John move to lift the cushions nearest them, while Sherlock makes his way down the middle of the car. Something under his foot catches his attention, and Iris turns just as he removes his gloves and kneels down to lift one of the floorboards up.  


Beneath the floorboard sits a massive contraption with thin blue tubes and large gray cylinders all intertwined and lit up. Directly in the center sits a timer with 3:30 in red on the screen. Iris freezes in place as John tenses next to her. Sherlock simply stares at the heart of the bomb, his face emotionless.  


“We need bomb disposal.” John states. Sherlock looks up at them both.  


“There may not be time for that now.”  


“So what do we do?” Iris asks quietly, fear beginning to creep in.  


“I have no idea.” Sherlock responds.  


“Well, think of something.” John warns, his voice low.  


“Why do you think I know what to do?” Sherlock asks, offended.  


“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes, you’re as clever as it gets.” John clips back.  


“It doesn’t mean I know how to diffuse a giant bomb.” Sherlock responds. “What about you?” He motions to John.  


“I wasn’t in bomb disposal, I’m a bloody doctor!”  


“And a soldier,” Sherlock raises his flashlight to point at John’s face for emphasis, the beam hitting Iris as well, “as you keep reminding us all!”  


“Hey, watch it.” Iris says, raising a hand to shield her eyes.  


“Can’t we rip the timer off or something?” John asks, looking down at the device.  


“That would set it off.” Sherlock scolds.  


“You see? You know things!” Iris adds, Sherlock sighing and moving away for a moment. Without any warning, the entire train car springs to life; the fluorescent lights flash on while the motor and air conditioner whir loudly around them. Iris looks down as the timer begins to tick down.  


“Oh my god.” Iris' voice barely makes any noise, the shock having knocked most of the wind out of her. John sighs loudly as he turns his back and Sherlock begins to pace, muttering to himself.  


“Why didn’t you call the police?” John asks quietly, turning to face Sherlock on the other side of the timer. “Why do you _never_ call the police?!”  


“Well, it’s no use now!” Sherlock tries to reason.  


“So you can’t switch the bomb off?” John shouts. “You can’t switch the bomb off and you didn’t call the police!”  


Sherlock pauses for a moment, looking between John and Iris.  


“Go, John. Go now, take Iris and run.” Sherlock demands, Iris snapping back into herself at the sound of her name.  


“There’s no point now, is there, because there’s not enough time to get away and if we don’t do this, other people will die!” John shouts back as a realization hits Iris.  


“Mind palace!” She cries, Sherlock looking at her confused. “Use your mind palace!”  


“How will that help?” Sherlock asks.  


“You’ve salted away every fact under the sun!” Iris counters.  


"Oh, what, you think I’ve just got ‘how to defuse a bomb’ tucked away in there somewhere?” Sherlock says exasperatedly.  


“Yes!” Iris and John reply at the same time. Sherlock looks off, contemplating the idea.  


“Maybe...” Sherlock says with a shrug, closing his eyes and pushing his fingertips to his temples. Iris can see his eyes moving behind his eyelids, his head twitching as he runs through whatever palace he has constructed in his mind.  


“Think!” John whispers frantically.  


“Think, please think.” Iris joins in, the two encouraging Sherlock to figure out what to do. She drops her eyes for a moment to see they’ve lost almost an entire minute.  


“Think!” John says louder, Sherlock grunting and his hands shifting in front of him, desperately trying to think of something. With a yelp, his eyes open and the look on his face sends Iris’ stomach to the floor. Sheer terror. Absolutely no idea how to solve this puzzle, and now it’s officially too late.  


“Oh, my God!” John bellows, turning away. Iris takes a few steps back unconsciously, one of the metal bars hitting her in the back behind her. Slowly she slides down to the floor, discarding her bag next to her. She wraps her arms around her knees in front of her as she stares blankly. Sherlock, frantic, flings off his scarf and drops to his knees in front of the bomb. He desperately tries to find something to stop the timer, hands feverishly flying about as he mutters to himself.  


“This is it... Oh my god...” John exhales, staring out the window behind him. He slowly turns, Sherlock sitting back on his heels, sadness and shock draining the color from his face.  


“I’m sorry.” Sherlock utters.  


“What?” John asks, taking a moment to look up at the ceiling and then back to Sherlock. Iris stays in her crumpled position on the floor, flabbergasted that Sherlock, of all people, can’t solve this puzzle.  


“I can’t... I can’t do it. I don’t know how. Forgive me.” Sherlock rises to his knees, hands out-stretched in front of him.  


“What?” John asks again, still trying to process.  


“Please, John, Iris,” Sherlock turns to Iris as well, “forgive me for all the hurt that I caused you both.”  


“No, no, no, this is a trick.” John starts, holding up his hand to stop Sherlock.  


“No.” Sherlock replies sadly.  


“Another one of your bloody tricks.” John refuses to believe this is happening. “You’re just trying to make me say something nice.”  


Sherlock sadly smiles, Iris wishing it was true.  


“Not this time.” Sherlock responds.  


“It’s just to make you look good even though you’ve behaved like...” John starts, but has to stop himself and turn towards one of the railings for support. Sherlock leans back and sits with his back to one of the center poles.  


“Not another magic trick, like you up on the roof?” Iris whispers, eyeing Sherlock. Unable to respond, Sherlock just looks at her, tears rolling down his cheeks. “John... I don’t think he is, this is it.” Iris manages to get out, completely taken aback by the emotion on Sherlock’s face. John sighs and looks down at his feet. With a stamp of his foot, he manages to respond.  


“I wanted you not to be dead.” John mutters angrily before letting go of the poll and pacing a few steps away.  


“Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back, you two wouldn’t be here and...” Sherlock pauses. “You’d still have a future with Mary, John.”  


“Yeah, I know.” John replies as he turns to Sherlock, his hand low as a warning not to continue. Tears continue down Sherlock’s face, as he brings a hand up to try and stop it. Iris looks down to see droplets of her own tears seeping onto her jeans as she wipes them off her face. Sherlock clears his throat and tries to speak.  


“Iris, I don’t know how...”  


“Sherlock, it’s okay. It’s all okay.” Iris runs a hand across her face, letting go of her knees and sitting up straight, determined to not let her final moments be spent sniveling.  


“I’m so sorry I caused you so much pain. With everything that happened these past two years, I wish-”  


“I’d do it all again. All of it.” Iris cuts him off with a sad smile. “Even if I knew it would land me right back here. You made me feel alive. And, yeah, maybe I didn’t handle your death in the best way, none of us did. I mean did you see the mustache this one grew?” Iris jabs her thumb towards John, who huffs out a laugh.  


“I forgave you the minute I saw you in Mycroft’s office.” Iris adds earnestly, Sherlock exhaling and hanging his head. “I’ve gone my whole life never feeling wanted or included, and I’ve spent just as long searching for that. All that doubt, the uncertainty? I wasn’t happy. Even if I never did find my birth parents, I’m content in knowing that you are my chosen family.” She looks to John, “You both are. My life lacked any sort of color or vivacity, and I found it in the most unexpected place. It’s what I agreed to in that pool with Moriarty before, and it’s the same thing I’ll always choose: you two. Through thick and thin, until the end.” Iris nods her head to punctuate the end of her sentence. John, realizing he needs to say something, straightens his shoulders and gathers the courage to speak again.  


“Look, I find it difficult... I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.” John barely gets out, unable to hide the tremble in his voice.  


“I know...” Sherlock replies softly. Another pause, as John inhales and finally looks at Sherlock.  


“You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known. So, yes, of course, I forgive you.” John breathes out. He and Sherlock share a look, the unspoken admiration and respect for the other palpable without any further discussion.  


Iris nods her head once, adding in her last bit of silent emotion, before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Before she can exhale, she hears Sherlock snickering across the car. Utterly confused, Iris opens her eyes to find Sherlock laughing with a huge grin on his face. John eyes him as he and Iris lean closer towards the timer. Blinking between 1:28 and 1:29, it is obviously paused, the threat of the bomb going off completely gone.  


John can barely contain himself as he shouts, “You!” causing Sherlock to laugh even more.  


“Oh, your face!” Sherlock says as he rises, wiping away his tears.  


“Utter...” John continues, unable to finish the insult. Iris can’t take her eyes off the paused timer. Somehow, while he was looking around, Sherlock must have found a switch or button and decided to play a trick on them.  


“Your faces! I totally had you both!”  


“You cock! I knew it! It knew it-”  


“Oh, those things you said, such sweet things. I never knew you cared.” Sherlock playfully teases John, Iris still on her hands and knees on the floor. She sits back on her heels, looking up at Sherlock with a murderously sarcastic glare. Sherlock giggles at Iris. “And you, Iris, I knew you cared, really-”  


“You know, I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this to _anyone!_ ” John cuts him off, fully breaking Iris out in laughter.  


“Scout’s honor!” Sherlock mock salutes him, Iris rising from the floor.  


“You knew!” Iris roars, trying to catch her breath in between laughs. “You knew how to turn it off, how?!”  


“There’s an off switch.” Sherlock explains, kneeling down and pointing to a small lever on the side of the timer. “There’s always an off switch. Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there’s an off switch.”  


“So why did you let us go through all that?” John shouts, Iris barely maintaining her composure as she continues laughing behind her hand.  


“I didn’t lie altogether.” Sherlock responds. “I’ve absolutely no idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off.”  


Iris covers her face with both her hands, laughing loudly at his response. Dropping her hands Iris catches a glimpse of flashlights off in the distance.  


“And you did call the police?” Iris asks, vacillating between wanting to smack Sherlock or continue to laugh.  


“Of course I called the police.” Sherlock says, mock offended that they would think anything different of him. John glares at Sherlock.  


“I’m definitely going to kill you.” John says, hiding a laugh of his own behind his smile.  


“Oh, please. Killing me, that’s so two years ago.” Sherlock jests, looking up at John and Iris with a smirk. John chuckles deep in his chest, Iris unable to contain a snort as they share in this insane moment together.  


“Let’s just keep you away from any tall buildings, all right?” Iris adds, Sherlock laughing with a nod.  


Bomb disposal arrives, leading the three of them back to the platform as Greg Lestrade stands waiting for them.  


“Well now, caught yourself a big one, did you? How’d you manage to stop it?” Greg asks, slightly confused by John’s glare at Sherlock and Iris’ stifle of a chuckle.  


“The off switch, obviously.” Sherlock responds without stopping, continuing on back the way they came. Greg raises his eyebrows, looking to Iris for more of an explanation. She sighs and pats Greg on the arm.  


“You sort of had to be there, sorry. But yes, there was an off switch, apparently, there’s always an off switch.” Iris responds, following them out.  


Greg manages to help them maneuver the flurry of officers and reporters once back above ground, closing the door to a cab for them before turning back to rejoin the commotion.  


Squeezed in between John and Sherlock in the cab, the reality of everything that just happened begins to sink in. The easy banter of two years ago starts to seep in amongst them, Iris feeling more alive and cheerier than she can remember. A mixture of wanting to cry and laugh flits about Iris’ brain, and with that, she makes a decision. Not wanting to share it quite yet, Iris simply clambers out with Sherlock onto Baker Street, John rolling down the window.  


“I’ll stop by with Mary tomorrow, get everyone together for a proper introduction.” John says with a wave.  


“Sounds good, no interruptions this time.” Iris teases, Sherlock rolling his eyes and moving to the front door. She watches John take off in the cab, following in through the door Sherlock holds open. Iris pulls her key from her pocket, as Sherlock pauses at the base of the stairs.  


“If you’re going to apologize for what just happened, you can save yourself and head back upstairs.” Iris teases, realizing he looks like he still wants to say something. “What?”  


“Thank you.” Sherlock says simply.  


“For what?” Iris asks, moving away from her door slightly.  


“For what you said. Usually people don’t... choose me...” Sherlock pauses before he can find the word, continuing on. “After these last two years, being alone, without you or John, I... I’m working on being more appreciative of those around me.” Sherlock smiles a small, almost sad smile.  


“You’re welcome, Sherlock, though it wasn’t a hard choice. Just please don’t do that again,” Iris motions to the door, to the past couple of hours with the bomb and all. Sherlock chuckles and nods.  


“I‘ll do my best. Goodnight, Iris.” Sherlock smiles before climbing the stairs back to his flat. Iris shakes her head with a laugh and moves back to her door. Mrs. Hudson’s door next to her opens, Mrs. Hudson in her nightgown, yawning.  


“Everything all right, dearie?”  


“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, everything is quite all right.” Iris grins. She’s about to turn when she stops herself. “Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I wondered if I could ask you something.”  


“Of course, what is it?”  


“I know I said I was only staying the week, but...” Iris trails off, looking back towards the staircase where Sherlock just left. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes widen in realization.  


“Really? You mean it?” She asks excitedly.  


“I think I’m done running away... That is, if you haven’t lent the flat out to anyone else.” Iris adds with a wink, Mrs. Hudson playfully hitting her shoulder.  


“Oh you know I haven’t, are you really going to stay?”  


“I think I am.” Iris says happily. “But don’t say anything yet, John and Mary are coming by tomorrow and I think I’ll tell them all then.”  


Mrs. Hudson clasps her hands together, beaming with excitement, before throwing her arms around Iris for a tight hug.  


The following afternoon, Iris hears knocking at the front door and goes to answer it, John and Mary on the doorstep.  


“Hi there! Come on in,” Iris says as she steps aside. Out front, a smattering of reporters are waiting, presumably for Sherlock, now that the news has broken about the terrorist threat. Choosing to ignore them for now, she shuts the door and turns to John and Mary.  


“Iris Moretti, this is Mary Morstan” John introduces, the two women shaking hands warmly.  


“It’s so nice to finally meet you, I mean without the bonfire and smoke inhalation.” Iris says, Mary laughing as she takes off her coat in the foyer with John.  


“Same to you, yes.” Mary smiles happily.  


“Looks like they’ll want to hear from us about the bomb then?” John asks, motioning out towards the reporters. Iris nods as they start to climb the steps  


“Yep, I tried to go for a breakfast sandwich earlier and had to fight a couple of them off. Hopefully Sherlock will go out and say something, at least enough to appease them so they’ll leave.”  


The front door to the living room is open and Mrs. Hudson flits about inside organizing champagne glasses with Greg Lestrade.  


“Oh, you’ve made it!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims, enveloping Mary in a hug as John takes her coat and hangs it on the smaller hooks in the hallway. Iris moves towards the kitchen looking for Sherlock, when she hears him on the phone down the hallway. It’s on speaker on the nightstand as Sherlock finishes putting on his jacket, his bedroom door open.  


A song from the musical _Les Misérables_ comes through the phone, Mycroft’s voice hushed and desperate. “Sherlock, please, I beg of you. You can take over at the interval.” He pleads. Sherlock buttons his jacket in the mirror, completely unperturbed.  


“Oh, I’m sorry brother, dear, but you made a promise. Nothing I can do to help.”  


“But you don’t understand the pain of it, the horror-”  


Sherlock hangs up the phone before Mycroft can say anything else.  


“He actually took your parents to see _Les Mis_?” Iris chuckles, trying to imagine Mycroft sitting through an entire musical voluntarily. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he pockets his phone. John appears behind Iris from down the hall.  


“You’ll have to go down, they want the story.” John says of the reporters out front. Sherlock moves past them both, heading back towards the living room.  


“In a minute.” Sherlock brushes off, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the kitchen. Iris notices a bottle of sparkling cider amongst the alcohol and tries to hide her surprise. Sherlock catches her eye but doesn’t say anything except smile briefly as he moves towards the couch, popping the cork.  


“I’m really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?” Mrs. Hudson asks as Sherlock moves to fill up glasses.  


“Well, we thought May.” Mary answers, settling into the couch with her glass.  


“Ah, a spring wedding.” Mrs. Hudson says dreamily.  


“Yeah, well once we’ve actually got engaged.” Mary teases, holding out her left hand, empty of an engagement ring. “We were interrupted last time.” Mary adds, shooting a mischievous look to Sherlock.  


“Well, I can’t wait.” Greg adds from his spot at the desk, raising a glass. Sherlock, having finished filling the glasses, moves away.  


“You will be there, Sherlock?” Mary asks, eyeing the detective.  


“Weddings... not really my thing.” Sherlock responds slyly, a wink as he moves towards the window.  


“Iris, we’d love to have you come, think you could make the trip back out in May?” John asks, Mary smiling as she looks to Iris.  


“Oh, well, actually...” Iris glances at Mrs. Hudson, a smile creeping across both of their faces. “I’ve decided to stay in London.” She announces. Mrs. Hudson starts clapping, various other exclamations from those around her.  


“Really? That’s wonderful Iris, really!” Greg says as he throws an arm over her shoulders in a side hug, not wanting to spill his drink. She reciprocates, glad to see their excitement.  


“Yeah, Melinda left behind some really promising leads on my birth parents, but while it might not be much to go on, I’m happy to be here with you all... Even if it gets me kidnapped and stuck in a bonfire every now and then.” Iris teases, earning laughs from everyone in the room. Sherlock turns to the window to look out at the reporters, his back to the door.  


A soft knock pulls their attention as Molly pops in, greeting everyone.  


“Hello, Molly.” John responds, startled by the man beside her.  


“This is Tom. Tom, this is everyone.” Molly introduces, Iris pausing mid-sip of cider. From his height, his build, his dark coat with the collar popped, to even how he tied his scarf, Tom’s similarity to Sherlock is astounding.  


“Hi.” He offers with a small wave, John, who’s closest to him in the room, looks him up and down. “It’s really nice to meet you all.” He turns to John, curious as to why he’s staring so intently, John thankfully snapping out of it.  


“Wow! Yeah, hi, I’m John. Good to meet you.” John says, shaking his hand.  


“Ready?” Sherlock calls, not having turned back to the group.  


“Ready.” John replies, eager to see what Sherlock thinks of his doppelgänger. Sherlock walks towards the door, smiling at Molly, before stopping mid-step at the sight of Tom. Iris holds her breath, hoping Sherlock will just keep quiet and not say anything. Greg tries to break the awkward silence by offering them champagne. Iris watches Sherlock observing Tom, all the way down to their almost identical leather shoes. Iris and John share a look.  


Sherlock offers his hand, shaking cordially with Tom. Without another word, Sherlock steps through the door, John and Iris following. Iris takes one last look at Tom before shutting the door behind her, quietly chuckling to herself.  


“Did you, uh...” John starts, as Sherlock slips his scarf around his neck.  


“I’m not saying a word.” Sherlock responds, starting to tie his scarf.  


“No, best not...” John trails off. Iris realizes Sherlock has started to tie his scarf identically to Tom’s inside.  


“Um... Sherlock?” She asks, pointing to the knot. Sherlock looks down with a sigh. John, thankfully, changes the subject.  


“I’m still waiting.” John says, buttoning his coat.  


“For what?” Iris asks.  


“Why did they try and kill us? If they knew you were onto them, why come after me? And sweep Iris up in it as well? Why put us in the bonfire?”  


“I don’t know.” Sherlock responds honestly. “I don’t like not knowing.” He grabs his coat and heads down the stairs, John and Iris following. “Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat. I don’t know who was behind all this but I will find out, I promise you.” Sherlock reaches the bottom of the stairs and slips into his coat, Iris leaning on the handrail as John stops on the last step.  


“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.” Iris says teasingly.  


“What?”  


“Being back. Being a hero again.” John explains.  


“Oh, don’t be stupid.” Sherlock tries to brush them off.  


“You’d have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it.” John presses, Sherlock turning to face them.  


“Love what?”  


“Being Sherlock Holmes.” Iris adds.  


“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” Sherlock turns away to walk towards the front door, playing it off coolly. Iris chuckles and opens her front door to grab a scarf, making a mental note to go buy a new coat. She returns and catches the end of John and Sherlock’s conversation.  


“No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave.”  


“I should hope so.” Sherlock responds, his back to them both.  


“I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you.” John says with little emotion behind his voice.  


“I know. I was there.” Sherlock turns to face them. Iris’ eyebrows arch in shock. He must have heard her then as well. Memories of the dirt and the cold and the sadness creep into her view, but Iris manages to center herself before the image of Sherlock crumpled on the ground fully focuses.  


“I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.” John says simply.  


“I heard you.” Sherlock responds quietly. His eyes flit to Iris and back to John, a shared understanding and somehow another apology. With a sharp inhale and a straightening of his shoulders, Sherlock turns towards the door. “Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes.”  


Iris clears her throat, stopping Sherlock. He turns back as Iris points at the coat rack.  


“Missing something?” Iris teases. Sherlock reaches out and plucks the deerstalker hat off the hook and places it firmly on his head. Slightly overwhelmed with emotion, Iris reaches out and puts her hand on John’s shoulder. He turns with a grin on his face.  


“He’s back.” She whispers.  


“Yes, indeed.” John replies, watching Sherlock swing open the front door as reporters and photographers descend upon him. John moves to catch the door before it closes, he and Iris stepping out as Sherlock plants himself firmly on the sidewalk to take questions on how they managed to save all of Parliament, and London, from a rogue Underground terrorist attack.  


The flashing of the cameras and excitement of reporters talking over one another invigorates Iris, happier memories from before Sherlock’s ‘fall’ crashing over one another.  


Iris has a lot to do before fully moving back to London, as she mentally makes a list of all it all. She doesn’t look forward to the conversation with Sam, but ultimately he’ll see this is what is best for Iris. These past two years have been dark and exhaustive and will definitely still take time to heal. But Iris could not think of a better place to do that healing than with John and Sherlock, back at 221B Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> And we are back! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, I loved writing it!


End file.
